


To Have And To Hold

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fake Dating, Fake marriage that's not really a fake marriage, I promise there's a happy ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Trans Enjolras, bed sharing, he's always trans in my stuff so deal w/it, idk why I've written so many wedding ones recently wtf?, kind of, so many tropes honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-05 15:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15866634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: Enjolras' parents have put him in a difficult situation. Well, they did, until Enjolras thought quickly and somehow made the matter even worse. Now he finds himself having to find a solution - a solution that might be a bit more long-term than he'd originally bargained for...(The fake dating/marriage AU everyone always wants tbh)





	1. Chapter 1

This was a disaster.

No, actually – scratch that. Disaster wasn't the right word for it. 'Disaster' implied it was some sort of unavoidable force of nature, as opposed to the deliberate attack from his parents that it was. Tornadoes were disasters. Earthquakes were disasters. His parents were just assholes - the only 'disaster' associated with them was the unfortunate fact that Enjolras had been born to them.

He took a deep drag off his cigarette, staring out into the darkness of the alleyway behind the Musain. Staring, but not really seeing. 

The usual meeting was supposed to start in ten minutes, but for once in his life Enjolras didn't think he'd be much use to it. His thoughts were in turmoil. When his parents had called him earlier that day to 'discuss important matters' he'd been convinced he was about to be cut off after years of idle threats. The idea had been harrowing with another year of university to survive, but now he was starting to think financial ruin would have been the least of his problems compared to _this_.

He could have just said 'no', he realised. It was 2018 for crying out loud - there was no way they could physically force him to do what they wanted, right?

He took another drag, watching the smoke drift away from his lips on the cool evening air and hating himself for it. He detested smoking - it was a dirty habit that fed into Big Bad corporations and made your clothes reek. But this was an emergency – the rare, 'red alert' sort that warranted chain smoking and a stiff drink. So here he was, feeling his fingers shake as they fought to keep hold of his cigarette, replaying the phone call over and over on repeat in his head.

“Enjolras?”

He jumped slightly, turning on the spot to see Combeferre standing in the doorway, concern etched into his features.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Of course.” Enjolras said, tossing the rest of his cigarette in shame, “Why do you ask?"

“Because you don't look it,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras cursed his honesty, “What's wrong?”

He looked down, focusing on stamping out the dying embers of his cigarette butt, “My parents called today,” he murmured.

“ _Oh_.”

That would have been enough, he knew. It was common knowledge among their friend group that Enjolras' parents were awful people and even worse parents. Posturing, cold, absent and entitled, they'd spent the entirety of Enjolras' childhood jetting off on luxury trips and leaving him in the care of a nanny - and that had been _long_ before he'd dared come out to them. 

“Did they say something...?” Combeferre ventured cautiously. Enjolras forced a smile.

"They've found me a rich husband.” he said flatly.

There was a beat of silence, and then Combeferre started to laugh; Enjolras couldn't blame him - the idea was so ludicrous that it could definitely pass for a joke. The gravity of the situation must have shown in his face, however, because after a few moments the smile on Combeferre's face died, and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Wait," he said, "Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately. Some rich jerk from a private boarding school. They think it'll help me grow out of this 'phase' I'm in."

"What 'phase'?"

"The one where I'm a guy."

“I...no,” Combeferre frowned, “No way. This isn't the 19th century, they can't just marry you off like that..."

“You clearly don't know the circles my parents move in,” Enjolras muttered, "They may as well be stuck in the 19th century."

"That's completely...I don't even have the words..."

"I know."

“It's wrong," Combeferre said fiercely, "Don't worry; we'll think of a way to get you out of it.”

Enjolras knew he was going to say that. His stomach turned over.

“There's no need,” he said, “I already found a way.”

“Thank god. What?”

“I told them I'm already married.” Enjolras admitted.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Really - it had. Very, very briefly. 

He'd been caught up in a moment of panic, his head swimming with visions of his father dragging him up the aisle in an ivory dress to marry some wealthy snob who's head was so far up his ass he'd have to have it surgically removed just to kiss him.

The words had just come out. They couldn't pressure him into marrying someone of their choosing if he was already married, right? It had seemed like a smart thing to say until they began to ask questions.

“Are you kidding?” Combeferre said, eyes wide, “Seriously? _That's_ what you said?”

“I panicked!” Enjolras reasoned, “I didn't know how else to get out of it!”

“You could have just said 'no'?"

“Combeferre, you've met my parents,” Enjolras said, “Do you really think I could've refused?”

Combeferre hesitated, shoulders sagging in defeat after a moment, “No,” he agreed, “They'd have never let up about it. But this wasn't the way to do it, Enjolras. They'll want to meet him, I assume?”

“Obviously."

“So what are you going to do?”

Enjolras shrugged, “Get married, I suppose." 

Combeferre stared at him, aghast, "What?!"

"You heard me."

“I thought that's what you were specifically trying to avoid?” he said.

“I'm trying to avoid marrying someone my _parents_ have picked out for me,” Enjolras said, sure that Combeferre would see his flawless logic, “Marrying a friend to get them off my back isn't a big deal. And there's tax benefits and things, aren't there? Divorce is cheap, if it's a mutual thing.”

Combeferre shook head his, apparently lost for words for a few moments, “This is ridiculous, Enjolras,” he said, “Who exactly do you expect to marry?”

“Well I figured you or Courfeyrac would be okay with it?” Enjolras said, shrugging, “Sorry – I know that's not exactly a very romantic proposal.”

Combeferre's jaw dropped, “Me or---?!" he blinked once, and then, recovering from the shock, looked suddenly terribly guilty, "Enjolras...”

"What?"

Whatever he was about to say was cut short by the jovial shouts of their friends arriving at the Musain. They sounded like they'd already been drinking; it was a Friday night, and most of them had a few hours between classes and the meeting. Enjolras couldn't hold it against them.

“This is a terrible, terrible idea,” Combeferre scolded, pointing at him sternly, “But hold this thought until the end of the meeting.”

“Fine,” Enjolras sighed, stepping around him to go back inside, “But I don't see any other option. I've made my bed, now I have to lie in it.”

“Not with someone else, you don't.” Combeferre mumbled.

 

* * *

 

 

The meeting passed by in a blur, and for once Enjolras didn't speak up at all, instead sitting off to the side as his friends took their turns singing their causes. Feuilly went about recruiting some of them as volunteers for the local soup kitchen, and Musichetta gave a 20 slide presentation about tackling misogyny on campus.

Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire had commandeered their usual table by the window, and after splitting a bottle of wine between the three of them seemed to be having a great time of it. Enjolras wondered if it would be totally preposterous for him to join them - he could do with a drink, for once in his life. Maybe if he got black-out drunk he'd forget all about his parents and the awful predicament they'd put him in, at least for a little while.

“Combeferre and I have an announcement!” It was Courfeyrac's chipper voice that interrupted his train of thought and made him turn his attention back to the front of the room. He was grinning from ear to ear, practically hanging off Combeferre's arm as he dragged him up with him. Courfeyrac had had a spring in his step all day, so much so that Enjolras hadn't wanted to burden him with his own bad news.

“Okay, so,” Courfeyrac said, beaming, “We - the two of us, I mean - have some _really_ exciting news!”

“They finally accepted your application to be part of the 'Queer Eye' fab five?” Bahorel joked.

“Not _that_ exciting, unfortunately,” Courfeyrac lamented, laughing, “But, well..." he looked adoringly at Combeferre, his cheeks pink, "We're engaged!”

“WHAT?!”

All heads turned to Enjolras at the outburst, stunned. Combeferre grimaced noticeably at Courfeyrac's side.

“I---I'm sorry,” he said immediately, and he meant it, truly, because he was overjoyed for them. They were his best friends, and the best matches for each other he could ever imagine. This was wonderful, brilliant, delightful news – and absolutely _terrible_ timing.

“Congratulations.” he said, stomach twisting with guilt when he saw the surprised look on Courfeyrac's face.

“Thanks,” he said, sounding uncertain, “Are you okay, Enj...?”

“I'll explain later,” Combeferre said to Courfeyrac, squeezing his hand.

The rest of the meeting morphed into an engagement party, and by the time it was over they had all voted to move the party to a bar just off the Champs-Élysées to continue the celebrations – and, well, Enjolras respected the sanctity of a majority vote.

He had been nursing a shot of vodka as though it were a cup of Earl Grey for ten minutes before Courfeyrac slid into the seat next to him, a very complicated looking cocktail in one hand. It was clear he was already well on his way to drunk.

“Combeferre told me about your parents,” he said, slinging one arm around him, “I'm sorry. They're fucking awful.”

Enjolras smiled sadly to himself, “Don't I know it. Congratulations, again,” he said, “I mean it. I'm happy for you both.”

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac said, grinning almost coyly, “He's so great, Enj. I don't know how I got him. I hit the fucking jackpot.”

“You did,” Enjolras agreed, “And so did he.”

“Awww, that's so gay,” Courfeyrac laughed, tightening his arm around him, “Thanks, man. I can't believe he's gonna be my husband. He's so smart and funny, and he has an ass that the gods would envy.”

“I can't say I've noticed that part,” Enjolras said, smirking, “But you guys are great together.”

“Mhmm. We really are.” Courfeyrac said, “And I'm sorry about the timing. It sucks. Combeferre thinks your 'marry a friend' plan is batshit, but I don't think it's that wild,” he shrugged, slurping loudly on the straw in his cocktail, “People get married for green cards and stuff all the time, right? It's understandable. The world is a shitfest. Beat the system. If marrying a friend keeps your shitty parents off your back, I say go for it.”

“Thanks...”

“I'd have friend-married you, if 'ferre hadn't asked me to get husband-married first.” Courfeyrac said earnestly.

“I don't know who else to go to, to be honest,” Enjolras admitted, looking down into his vodka. He should have just got a mixer. He hated straight vodka. He didn't say it out loud; Courfeyrac would never let him without turning it into a gay joke.

“Well we have other friends,” Courfeyrac reminded him, “Ask them.”

“Like who?” Enjolras sighed, “I can't ask Joly, Bossuet or Musichetta – I don't want to impose on their thing.”

“Jehan?”

“No thanks. I feel like they're aspiring to be a Black Widow and I don't fancy being their first foray into the glamorous world of spousal murder.”

“Bahorel?”

“Do you really think my parents would buy that I eloped with _Bahorel?_ ”

“True,” Courfeyrac said, taking another thoughtful sip of his cocktail, “What about Grantaire?”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras echoed, feeling himself bristle almost automatically. His gaze went immediately to where the dark-haired man was sitting with Joly and Bossuet. He felt his heart flutter strangely.

“Why Grantaire?” 

Courfeyrac plucked the little colourful umbrella out of his glass, twirling it around idly, “He's in a rough place; his parents finally cut him off, and he's flat broke. Just saying – marrying rich and getting tax benefits and shit might be appealing to him. And you need a husband asap.”

“You really think he'd do it?” Enjolras said.

“Oh yeah. Trust me, he'd do it.” Courfeyrac said, and he seemed almost amused by the question. He stuck the umbrella playfully behind Enjolras' ear, tucking some of his hair behind it, “Ask him and see.” he urged, “Now – I'm off to grind like a monster on my fiancé because I can totally do that. Oh, and finish your drink – it's good for you.”

With that Courfeyrac was gone, leaving an empty hurricane glass and a troubled Enjolras in his wake.

It was worth asking, he supposed. Sure, he had some...issues surrounding Grantaire, but he couldn't afford to be picky right now. Suddenly he could imagine it all with ease; the two of them stood side by side at the registry office in fine suits, exchanging rings...it was perhaps a bit too romantic, in his head. Pushing the sentiments aside with a scoff he picked up his shot glass and drained it in one, feeling the vodka burn it's way down his throat.

Well, he thought, looking over at Grantaire again – there were probably way worse places to propose, right?


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you think they're going to fight about who gets the Fearless Leader as their best man?”

Grantaire scoffed at the comment, “I'd like to see that,” he said, “Who would your money be on if they did?"

“Courfeyac,” Bossuet decided, swigging his beer, "Definitely Courfeyrac."

“Really?” Joly furrowed his brow, “Nah. Combeferre, surely? Combeferre can be _terrifying._ ”

“Yeah but Courfeyrac does that puppy dog face thing, you know,” Bossuet said, “Even Combeferre gets weak over that.”

“That's fair.”

“Does it really matter? They're not getting married for ages anyway. Combeferre said he wanted to graduate med school first,” Grantaire said, tired of all the talk of the impending Courferre nuptials. He was happy for them, of course, but a wedding was the last thing he needed to hear about when he was wallowing in a perpetual state of singleness.

"You're both talking like it's happening next week."

“Oh don't be so moody,” Bossuet said, slinging one arm around him, “You not the wedding sort, R?”

“No.” Grantaire snorted, shoving him away, “Trust me, my parents set a really good example of why you should never get married.”

“Ah, don't be so quick to say that,” Joly said, “You never know, hey?”

Grantaire let out a dry laugh, “Oh come on - I don't think I could _pay_ someone to marry me," he said, "I haven't even had a date in months.”

“Well don't look now stud, but someone is coming over to offer you a drink...” Joly said, raising one eyebrow; Grantaire spun around on his barstool to see Enjolras walking stiffly over to them. His lips were pursed and his eyes were focused in that way that usually came just before an argument.

Noticing this, Grantaire frantically searched his brain for clues as to what he'd done to displease him. Nothing came immediately to mind.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered under his breath, elbowing Joly sharply in the ribs when he laughed.

Enjolras stopped a few feet away from him, arms folded across his chest.

“Grantaire,” he said, voice curt as though he was trying really hard to sound polite.

Grantaire felt his heart jump up into his throat, “Hey,” he said, “You enjoying yourself?”

“Not really. It's a bar. It isn't really my scene.”

“You don't say?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he said.

Grantaire felt his mouth drop open, certain he'd misheard him.

“Holy shit, I was right,” Joly gasped. He elbowed him again.

“Uh, yeah, sure..." Grantaire said, somewhat slowly, “Is this a trap?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, sliding onto the bar stool next to his and making Grantaire's heart beat a mile a minute. He was sitting next to him, offering him a drink. Holy shit. _Holy shit._

“Why on earth would I try to trap you?” Enjolras said.

He sounded so suave – that charming personality he could pull out of nowhere – but, Grantaire noticed, he began to pick anxiously at a coaster with his nails.

 _Something's wrong,_ he realised.

“I don't know – justice for something I did or said at the last meeting?” he supplied. Enjolras shrugged.

“You weren't so bad this time.”

“That's high praise from you.”

Enjolras bit his lip, not looking over at him, “What do you want to drink?”

“Uh, same again – vodka and coke...”

Enjolras gave a small nod, flagging down the bartender to order. Grantaire looked to his right, exchanging a somewhat panicked look with both Joly and Bossuet.

“Grantaire, can we talk privately for a moment?” Enjolras said suddenly.

“Uh...yeah, I guess...” Grantaire was pretty sure his soul was about to leave his body. Was this actually happening? “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Enjolras frowned, “I'm not always mad at you, you know?” he glanced over at Joly and Bossuet, smiling awkwardly, “Do you mind...?”

“No, no, not at all!” Bossuet said, holding up his hands in surrender, “Be our guest!”

“Absolutely - don't let us stop you!” Joly agreed, alighting his seat, “Take your time!”

“Yeah,” Bossuet grinned, “He's all yours...”

Grantaire grimaced, making a mental note to murder them both for mutiny later - if he survived this interaction without succumbing to heart failure, anyway.

“Sooo...” he turned back to face Enjolras, who was still looking as severe as ever. It didn't help Grantaire's predicament that he always looked unearthly beautiful, even with a slight crease in his brow and a frown on his lips. He was like some kind of Renaissance sculpture, and Grantaire was totally fucked.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Well,” Enjolras hesitated for a moment, and then did something that made Grantaire start to wonder if he was dreaming the whole thing---he raised one hand and called to the bartender to order a shot of neat whiskey.

Grantaire watched in stunned silence as Enjolras finished it in one go, shuddering at the taste and holding one hand up to his chest.

“Urgh,” he said, “This is horrible. Why do you drink so much?”

“You get used to it...” Grantaire said, still dumbstruck, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I'm fine,” Enjolras murmured, waving him away, “I just needed a bit of courage.”

“For what?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

Grantaire felt his breath catch in his throat, “Oh?” he said, “What kind of proposition?”

“Well, okay, let me start by---well, basically, my parents are trying to marry me off. Some rich asshole, his family owns some fancy Chateau in the South and I am _not_ willing to go along with what they want.”

“Obviously, yeah. That sounds shitty.”

“Well, they've been really pressuring me about it,” Enjolras said, “Anyway, today I was on the phone with them and they were pushing and pushing, and, well, I panicked and told them I was already married to get them off my back.”

“Alright.” Grantaire scowled, lost, “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Well they want to meet...you know what, nevermind all this. I'll cut right to the chase; will you marry me?”

The question was like being hit on the back of the head with a sledgehammer. For a moment Grantaire couldn't even respond – it didn't feel real. He just sat there, mouth agape, staring at a very, very serious Enjolras and waiting for the punchline to drop.

“Will I _w_ _hat?_ ” he said, when he finally found his voice again.

“Will you marry me?” Enjolras repeated, slowly and firmly, as though he thought Grantaire hadn't heard him correctly. _As though!_

“Uh...I feel like I'm going to regret asking this, but are you high?”

“No,” Enjolras said, his brilliant blue eyes still painfully stern, "Well?"

“I...think you've missed a few pretty vital steps there,” Grantaire stammered, “Like, you know, dating. You want to _marry_ me?”

“Not a real marriage,” Enjolras said hurriedly, “Just legally speaking. A registry office thing, you know? In and out.”

“Why?”

“So they'll leave me alone for good,” Enjolras said, “And I have no desire to marry for love anyway, so it doesn't matter to me. It's just a piece of paper.”

“Wow,” Grantaire said, feeling his heart sink like an anvil, “You're a real charmer, you know that?”

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras winced, “I'm just being honest. Look, you're welcome to say no – but Courfeyrac told me your parents cut you off, and---”

“Judas,” Grantaire muttered.

“---And I figured it would be mutually beneficial. You get tax benefits and things when you're married, and you can get the university to help you with finances, and my parents are going to increase my living allowance for me and my husband...”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Grantaire said, finishing his drink in one go, “Christ. This is...I don't know, Enjolras. You hate me, are you sure you can stomach being _married_ to me?”

“I do _not_ hate you!” Enjolras protested, and Grantaire had to hand it to him - he did look hurt by the accusation.

“Far from it. And it's not like it would be a _real_ marriage. We wouldn't live together, or...or sleep together, or have children or anything absurd.”

Grantaire felt his stomach writhe with misery. He looked down into his empty glass, his mind racing. In his heart he knew he'd already made his decision; he couldn't deny Enjolras anything – it was sad, really. Enjolras clearly needed this, and who was Grantaire to argue? His own family hated him - he'd be lucky to squeeze another euro out of his father. Besides, it wasn't exactly like he had people lining up to date him - being married for tax benefits wouldn't exactly interfere with that aspect of his life.

And Enjolras was loaded - if it wasn't for the myriad of confusing feelings Grantaire had for him, this would have been a sweet deal.

“You're serious about this?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, sounding absolutely pitiful, “I don't want my parents to guilt me into marrying someone they've picked. This is the only way they'll get off my case about it for good.”

“And like, if I ever said I was done with it, couldn't hack it," Grantaire said, not meeting his gaze, “We could get divorced? No big deal?"

“Of course,” Enjolras said, “I wouldn't dream of trying to lock you into it for life.”

"You're kind of missing the point of marriage, then."

"I'm sorry."

Grantaire sighed, “Why me, anyway?”

“Well...I thought you'd benefit from it too," Enjolras shrugged, "And Combeferre and Courfeyrac aren't exactly available anymore...”

“Ah,” Grantaire smirked, “That's the real reason, then? Obviously I wasn't your first choice.”

Enjolras didn't respond. Grantaire thought it was probably best that way – he knew it, sure, but to hear it from Enjolras himself would have been too much.

“Well,” he sighed, finally accepting defeat, “Order me another drink and I guess we have a deal."

Enjolras beamed, and it was pathetic how weak it made Grantaire feel, “Thank you,” he said, “Thank you so much.”

Grantaire stared at him, breathless.

“You're welcome, I guess. When do you want to do it?”

“As soon as possible,” Enjolras said, “I'll make some phone calls tomorrow.”

“Great...” Grantaire said, “Should we order champagne or something?”

“I don't like champagne,” Enjolras confessed, “It goes straight to my head.”

“All the more reason to drink it.” Grantaire decided, lifting up his empty glass, “A toast, then,” he said, “To our happy sham marriage.”

Enjolras flushed, raising his empty shot glass to his.

Joly and Bossuet were going to lose it when he told them about this. 'Never get married' he'd said.

_'Never get married'._

Typical.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras staggered out into the kitchen the next morning, mouth dry and hair sticking up in all directions, to find Combeferre and Courfeyrac talking happily together at the kitchen table over croissants and coffee. It was totally unfair that they looked so normal after the night before – he knew for a fact that Courfeyrac had had more to drink than he had, and yet here he was, bright-eyed and beaming. It was nearly noon and Enjolras' head was pounding like a drum.

“I see you stayed over, then,” Enjolras mumbled, sinking miserably into an empty chair.

“Obviously.” Courfeyrac said, pouring him a cup of coffee, “I couldn't let my lovely fiancé sleep alone, could I?”

“Mhm,” Enjolras took the mug gratefully, “I'm sure you didn't do a great deal of sleeping.”

“Well fortunately you were too drunk to notice,” Courfeyrac grinned.

“Don't remind me,” Enjolras grimaced, “I made the mistake of drinking champagne before we left the bar...”

“Champagne?” Combeferre raised his eyebrows, “Enjolras, your upbringing is showing...”

“Oh shut up.”

Combeferre shook his head, amused.

“So what did you do last night? Before we had to carry you out to the taxi, anyway.”

“I got engaged.” Enjolras said, picking at his croissant; he heard Courfeyrac's spoon clatter to the table, looking up to see both Courfeyrac and Combeferre staring at him, eyes so wide it was almost comical. They looked like a pair of owls. 

“What?” Enjolras scowled, “You knew that was the plan. Courfeyrac, you said you thought it was a good idea!”

“I was _drunk!_ ” Courfeyrac argued, throwing up his hands in despair, “Don't you remember the cardinal rule? Don't take Drunk Courfeyrac's advice. Drunk Courfeyrac is a force of chaos, like...like Puck, or Loki!”

“You'd had _one_ cocktail at that point!” Enjolras argued, indignant.

“Enjolras, honey, you know me – one Pina Colada and I'm on the floor.”

Enjolras sighed, shoulders sagging, “Well it's too late to take it back now,” he said, “I'm calling the registrar in a few hours to arrange everything.”

“Wait, slow down,” Combeferre said, rubbing his temples, “I'm lost. Who exactly is your lucky intended?”

“Grantaire.”

“Grantaire?”

“Yes.”

“... _Grantaire?_ ”

“Yes. Is there an echo in here?”

Combeferre shook his head, “You can't possibly think that's a good idea, Enjolras...”

“It's the only option. And he's not so bad.” he shrugged, sipping his coffee, “He needs this too. It'll be fine.”

“I'm not saying it's a bad idea because _he's_ bad. I'm saying it's a bad idea because...well...you know...” Combeferre trailed off, casting a sidelong glance at Courfeyrac. Courfeyac shook his head frantically, and Enjolras got the distinct feeling he was being left out of something.

“Don't,” he said, “Just don't go there right now.”

“Go where?” Enjolras pressed, looking suspiciously between the two of them.

“It doesn't matter,” Combeferre said hastily, “My point is...are you quite certain you want to be married to _Grantaire?_ ”

“You're acting like this is going to be a real marriage,” Enjolras scoffed.

“It _will_ be a real marriage. Legally speaking the two of you will be tied together.”

“What's a bit of paper, really?”

Combeferre took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he'd just developed a terrible migraine, “This is madness,” he said.

“Well it's none of your business,” Enjolras said, pushing his plate away; there was no way he could stomach food right now, “So don't trouble yourself over it.”

“I can't believe Grantaire actually said yes,” Courfeyrac remarked, picking up his spoon again and resuming stirring his coffee, “How do you even go about asking that sort of thing?”

“I was just honest.” Enjolras stated, “I told him my problem and what I needed to do, and we discussed what would be in it for him.”

“And what _is_ in it for him?”

“Tax benefits, my parents' allowance...”

“No, uh, perks...?”

“Perks?” Enjolras said, baffled, “Like what?”

“Well, you know. He's been single for a looooong time...” Courfeyrac smirked, wagging his eyebrows.

“What---you think----you think I'd just offer myself up on a plate like that for the sake of getting my parents off my back?!”

“I was just asking!” Courfeyrac said, holding up his hands as though Enjolras was pointing a gun in his face, “Geez. I just thought it was worth mentioning. All I'm saying is a good blowjob will go a long way.”

“Courfeyrac!”

“Sorry.”

“You're incorrigible - and to think I was going to invite you to my sham wedding!” Enjolras said, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms across his chest, “I assume that's of no interest to you now though, since you think this is ridiculous.”

“Hey, just because I think it's the worst idea you've ever had in your whole life doesn't mean I won't support it wholeheartedly.” Courfeyrac said, reaching across the table to pat his arm, “I'll be there if you want me to be.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, turning to Combeferre; he shook his head, jaw clenched.

“No.” he said, “I won't be attending. I can't condone this plan of yours, Enjolras – I'm sorry.”

“Why?” Enjolras said dryly, “Are you getting all weird about the 'sanctity of marriage' now that you're all betrothed?”

“No – don't be ridiculous,” Combeferre said, “I can't condone it, Enjolras, because I think someone is likely to get hurt.”

“Hurt? This isn't Game Of Thrones.”

“Not at the _wedding_ , Enjolras. But overall. It's something very intimate and serious and I think you're underestimating the importance of it.”

“Well fortunately it's my mistake to make,” Enjolras said, feeling himself bristle involuntarily beneath Combeferre's disapproving stare. How did he manage to do that? Courfeyrac seemed like the only one immune to it. He'd had quite enough of this lecture - what was really so important about saying a few throwaway vows in front of an officiant and signing a piece of paper? Nothing would change, except that Enjolras' parents might finally get off his back and Grantaire would be better off.

Combeferre let out a disparaging sound and pointedly lifted his coffee mug to his lips, apparently choosing not to comment. Courfeyrac smiled guiltily.

“Well, I'll be there,” he said.

“Thanks. We do need at least two witness, though...”

“I'm sure Joly and Bossuet will come along.” Courfeyrac said, “They wouldn't let R go to his death alone.”

Enjolras scowled, “Gee, thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

 

* * *

 

“So, uh, when is it actually going to be happening?”

“Well the wedding banns have to be posted for ten days before the ceremony,” Enjolras said, staring up at the ceiling of his room.

“Which means?” Grantaire asked.

“Which means we have an appointment tomorrow to get that sorted, and then we book the ceremony for ten days from tomorrow.”

It was, he realised shamefully, the first time he'd ever actually spoken to Grantaire on the phone. They'd texted occasionally, sure, and there was the Les Amis groupchat that was constantly blowing up his phone, but a real, actual conversation? It was probably bad form to be talking to his future husband on the phone for the first time less than two weeks before the wedding.

“Ten days from tomorrow?” Grantaire said, sounding somewhat taken aback, “Fuck. That's really soon.”

“Are you having second thoughts?” Enjolras asked.

“No, no, don't worry, I just...I don't know, I thought it took longer to do all the legal shit.” Grantaire murmured. His voice was hoarse and low, and Enjolras wondered if it always sounded like that on the phone or if it was the strangely attractive by-product of a hangover.

“Ten days is fine.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, “If you're sure?”

“Yeah, yeah...”

“Are Joly and Bossuet coming?”

“Why?” Grantaire sounded puzzled, “It's not like it's a real ceremony. I mean, it's real, but not, you know, _real_...”

“Well we need witnesses,” Enjolras reminded him, “At least two.”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac?”

“Combeferre has refused to attend.” Enjolras said, biting his lip. There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

“Oh.” Grantaire said finally, “Uh...why?”

“He disagrees with our arrangement.”

“Right. That's...a shame, I guess?”

Enjolras shrugged, forgetting momentarily that Grantaire couldn't see him, “I suppose,” he said, “But he'll get over it. And Courfeyrac has agreed to come. We just need one other person.”

“Well, I'll ask Joly and Bossuet, then,” Grantaire said, “But, uh, admittedly I haven't told them about it yet.”

“Why?”

“I just don't think they'll take it well.”

Enjolras sighed, sitting up on his bed, “Why is everyone making it into such a big deal?” he said, more to himself than to Grantaire, “It's none of their business.”

“Yeah, we're just two friends getting married,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras stiffened at the sarcasm in his voice, “What's weird about that?”

“We don't have to do this,” Enjolras reminded him sharply, “If you've changed your mind, just say so. It's not a shotgun wedding.”

“No, Enjolras, it's fine,” Grantaire said, sounding tired, “I just think you should try to understand our friends a bit more. It's strange, for them - most of them are in relationships, so I guess the idea of marrying for legal reasons and not for love is difficult for them to get their heads around."

“I suppose so,” Enjolras said, laying back down on his bed, “Sorry.”

“Did you just _apologise_ to me? That's twice in two days. That's a record, I think”

Enjolras smirked, “Don't get used to it.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Grantaire said, and Enjolras could hear the smile in his voice. For some reason, it made his chest feel warm.

“Anyway, I need to go. I have work to do,” Enjolras said, pushing the strange sensation to the back of his mind, “I'll see you tomorrow at the registrar's office. 1:00PM. Don't be late.”

“And leave you at the altar? Never.”

“Haha,” Enjolras rolled his eyes, “It's not the actual wedding tomorrow, remember. But they might interview us a bit, check we're both consenting single adults...”

“Unfortunately for me I'm all three.” Grantaire said, “See you tomorrow, Enjolras.”

Enjolras smiled, “You too.”


	4. Chapter 4

Grantaire groaned, laying his head down on the table.

“You're a masochist,” Bossuet said, as though in wonder, “Theres no other explanation."

"I know."

"Like, I know you dislike yourself sometimes, but seriously? Why would you agree to this other than to hurt yourself?”

“Shut up,” Grantaire mumbled, “What else was I supposed to say?”

“Uh, how about 'no'? Did that not cross your mind at all?” Joly said, taking a swig of beer, “Geez. I knew Enjolras wasn't exactly the romantic sort, but this is tactless even for him.”

“Yeah, he could have at least taken you to dinner first.” Bossuet agreed.

“You didn't see how desperate he was,” Grantaire said, “His parents are horrible people, you know that. I couldn't let them do that to him.”

“There's no way the could force him. They'd have to physically drag him to the altar,” Joly pointed out, “As far as solutions go, this all seems a bit extreme...”

“They'd have never let it slide,” Grantaire shrugged, eyes fixed in a thousand-mile-stare across the bar. The terrifying reality of the situation had only started to dawn on him that afternoon in the registrar's office as he sat beside Enjolras, forcing a smile and pretending they'd been in a loving relationship for years.

It was agony – like acting out a cruel parody of his most intimate hopes and dreams. At one point he'd taken Enjolras' hand, an almost instinctive gesture, and felt him flinch uncomfortably at his touch. It had been a bitter reminder that this whole thing was a sham.

“Why do you have to _actually_ get married?” Bossuet protested, absent-mindedly peeling off the label on his beer bottle, “Surely just _saying_ you're married would be enough?”

Grantaire shook his head, “Enjolras said his parents are suspicious. He's scared they'll look into it. And, like, I do kind of need the tax benefits and the money and stuff. It's not a big deal, right?”

“Uh...right,” Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look, and Grantaire felt his heart sink.

“It isn't!” he said, “It's not a _real_ wedding!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Bossuet said, “But we'll be there, I guess. What kind of friends would we be if we missed your big day, hey?” he grinned.

“Thanks. I need the moral support,” Grantaire said darkly, “God, am I going to have to kiss him? I am, aren't I? It'd look weird to the officiant if I didn't.”

“What a chore,” Bossuet lamented, smirking, “A terrible sacrifice. I'm sure you'll hate every second of it.”

“Yeah,” Joly snickered, “ _You_ , kiss _Enjolras?_ You poor thing. Must be like a waking nightmare to you...”

“I hate you both,” Grantaire decided, head in his hands.

“Well, I know how we can remedy that,” Joly said, waving to flag down the barman, “Hey! Same again, and keep them coming!”

“Yeah, you've only got ten days of freedom left, Grand R,” Bossuet said, slinging his arm around Grantaire's shoulders so aggressively he nearly pulled him off his stool, “The least we can do is throw you a bachelor party!”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” Joly said, passing him another beer, “Drink up!”

 

* * *

 

 

'Drink up' had seemed like a good idea until he was seven beers, four glasses of wine and five shots into the evening and staggering the long way home with Joly and Bossuet. They'd called it quits when the bouncers at the last club had told them they 'weren't allowed to dance on the tables'. What kind of fascist country...

“Do you think you guys will tell the others?” Bossuet asked, supporting Joly, who was busy waving his cane around like a sword.

“I dunno,” Grantaire mumbled, “Probably not. He'll probably be too ashamed of me to want to announce it to the world.”

He slowed down slightly as he spoke, worried that the world was moving too fast around him. His head was spinning, and his stomach felt like it was about to stage a protest all over his shoes. This was a new record, even for him.

“Don't talk like that,” Joly whined, stumbling slightly, “You're a real catch, R. Enjolras doesn't know how lucky he is that you're agreeing to this.”

“Yeah, I'm sure he counts his blessings every time he looks at me,” Grantaire snorted, “You know he asked Combeferre and Courfeyrac first, right? It's not like I was his first choice. I'm nobody's first choice.”

“You're _our_ first choice, R,” Bossuet said gently, “Pinkie promise.”

Grantaire managed a small smile at that. He guessed that counted for something. Somehow, for all his snide remarks and endless rambling, he had friends - friends so loyal they were even going to accompany to him to his fake-not-fake-bad-idea-wedding.

“Thanks,” he said, hiccuping. It hurt; his throat was burning from the last shot of tequila.

“Wish I could just get over him, you know?” he said.

“Yeah,” Joly sighed, “Maybe one day.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, “Like when I'm dead.”

 

* * *

 

The day of the wedding arrived frighteningly quickly. He barely slept in the lead up, and the days blurred horribly into one until the actual date came rolling around unexpectedly swiftly.

“What if he smells the fear on me and bolts?” He asked Joly as he paced around outside the registrar's office.

“That's animals, not people,” Joly said, squinting at him, “Are you okay? You don't have to do this if you don't want to...”

“That's not it,” Grantaire said, “I _do_ want to do this – for him, and for me. It's a smart idea. It's practical.”

“And it's a sure-fire way to get your heart broken.” Joly said under his breath. Grantaire ignored him. This _was_ a good idea, both for Enjolras and himself. It freed Enjolras from a family that was quite frankly not fit to wear the title, and it landed Grantaire in a very comfortable position of financial security. Once again he found himself reflecting on how it would have been a _great_ idea if he hadn't been so pitifully, painfully in love with him.

“You can change your mind,” Bossuet reminded him.

“I know that.” Grantaire said. He didn't need to be told that – he knew Enjolras well enough to know that if he thought Grantaire was going into this unwillingly he would have called the whole thing off in an instant. If the concept of consent could have had a poster boy, it would have been Enjolras.

“I haven't changed my mind.”

“If you insist.”

Enjolras was five minutes late when he made it to the registrar's office, hair windswept from the breeze on the Metro and apologising frantically. Seeing that he was dressed in his usual jeans and button down at least reassured Grantaire that he wasn't under-dressed for the occasion; he'd opted for his normal wardrobe, fearing that anything fancier might have made it a bit too much like a real wedding.

“You look good,” Enjolras said anyway, visibly relieved. He must have been thinking the same thing.

“Thanks. You too.”

Enjolras gave a strained smile, trying to pat down his hair; it was ridiculously endearing the way his curls had a mind of their own.

“The Met was a nightmare, that's why I'm late.”

Grantaire couldn't help but smirk, “Well, you would choose rush hour to get hitched..."

“It was the only appointment they had,” Enjolras said ruefully, “It wasn't on purpose, I swear."

“It's fine, really. I'm joking.”

“Oh. Good."

“Where's Courfeyrac, anyway?” Grantaire said with a frown, noticing a distinct absence of the curly-haired ball of energy that was their friend.

“Ah,” Enjolras' face turned a delightful shade of pink, and Grantaire made a mental note to commit the image to memory, “He insisted on getting us a wedding present...” he explained.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, “A wedding present?” he said, “He knows this is a ruse, right?”

“Of course.” Enjolras said, exasperated, “Do you know Courfeyrac _at all?_ ”

“Good point.”

“He'll be along in a minute, he said we should go ahead and start without him,” Enjolras said, glancing at his phone, “We're already late thanks to me. Come on – let's go.”

Grantaire nodded, following him up the steps and into the building. The whole thing felt surreal.

“Make sure you set your phone to silent,” he said, attempting to lighten the heavy mood, “Would kind of ruin the moment, you know?”

“Sure,” Enjolras agreed, and Grantaire watched as he fished his phone from his back pocket and did as he said, something that implied, much to Grantaire's amusement, that it hadn't even crossed his mind until now. Not surprising, really; Enjolras was constantly networking on behalf of Les Amis. It wasn't a far stretch of the imagination to picture him stopping the officiant mid-ceremony to take an important call.

Grantaire wouldn't have been any less smitten with him if he did.

“Oh, uh – there's just one thing,” Enjolras said suddenly, fidgeting slightly, “One small thing.”

“What?”

“My gender isn't legally changed.”

“Oh. So...”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire frowned, “Well, they can fuck right off if they think they can call you my 'wife'. I'll correct them,” he offered.

He saw Enjolras' eyes light up for a moment, “Thank you,” he said.

When they reached the office the officiant welcomed them in and invited them up to the table, and then their vows were said, very matter-of-factly with Grantaire firmly correcting the officiant whenever the incorrect words were used for Enjolras. They'd chosen the least romantic vows they could, the vows that sounded the most like a contract, and received raised eyebrows from the officiant for their decision.

“It's just our way of expressing our love,” Grantaire said, “We met at a law firm. 'I'm entering into this contract willingly and of my own volition' is our 'always'.”

Joly and Bossuet snickered behind him; he fancied he even saw the corner of Enjolras' lip curl up a fraction.

Just as they were about to draw it to a close the door burst open and Courfeyrac came rushing in like he was planning to scream 'I object', flush-faced and his hair askew. He looked like he'd run the whole way there from the other side of Paris.

“I'm so sorry!” he cried, “Enjolras, you wouldn't believe it – I forgot the rings! What kind of best man am I?”

Enjolras stiffened. Grantaire froze.

“Rings?” Enjolras said, voice accusatory.

“Yeah, you know,” Courfeyrac smiled, retrieving two small velvet boxes from seemingly nowhere, “These babies. Can't get married without them, right?”

Grantaire saw Enjolras' jaw twitch ever so slightly. _Ah._ So that would be Courfeyrac's 'wedding present', then. Jackass.

“Of course,” Enjolras said tightly, taking the boxes from Courfeyrac like he was being handed two live grenades, “Thank you _so_ much,”

“You're welcome.”

With that decided for them they exchanged the rings – two simple plain silver bands – and then the ceremony was officially over.

“By virtue of the authority vested in me by the state, I now declare the two of you---" The officiant hesitated for a moment, and seeing the murderous look in Enjolras' eyes apparently thought twice about trying to use the word 'wife' again - “Wed according to the ordinance of the law. You may now kiss."

Grantaire hesitated for a moment, heart pounding so hard in his chest he was worried he'd break a rib; they locked eyes for a heartbeat, each of them looking as terrified as the other, and then Grantaire awkwardly edged forward, waiting until Enjolras did the same before he pressed his lips chastely to his.

Joly and Bossuet applauded half-heartedly. Courfeyrac let out a little 'whoop!' of glee. Then Grantaire leaned back and it was over.

“Well,” Enjolras said, his face so red that Grantaire was a little worried he might pass out, “That was a nice ceremony.”

They signed the legal paperwork swiftly and then headed off, Enjolras turning to the officiant and holding his hand out curtly on his way out, “Thank you for that.” he looked to Grantaire then, and there was something in his eyes that suggested the weight of what they had done had only just hit him.

“Should we go, then? The meeting starts in half an hour.”

Grantaire was inclined to agree; he wanted to be out of there as fast as possible.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The meeting felt surreal. It was like one of those dreams where your friend has the head of a lion or your dog has wings, but nobody else seems to notice and everything else in the dream is so painfully normal that you start to doubt if it's even a dream at all. That was how Enjolras felt right now – only the lion head or dog with wings was the fact that he and Grantaire were now married.

_Married._

Half an hour earlier they'd been standing in a registrar's office making solemn vows to be joined in matrimony until death did them part, and now here they were in the Musain like nothing had changed, listening to Combeferre as he gave a presentation about the importance of gender neutral language in the medical field. It was absurd.

Sitting there in silence Enjolras caught himself glancing across at Grantaire, his mind starting to wander back to the kiss. He'd been taken aback by the surprising softness of Grantaire's lips. He'd smelled of nice cologne, and Enjolras found himself wondering if he'd put it on specifically for the occasion. The thought made him feel strangely warm. He could still smell it on his own clothes; sandalwood and something with a musky undertone...

“Enjolras?”

He looked up suddenly, locking eyes with Combeferre; he saw thinly veiled disapproval in his brow, but to Combeferre's credit he did not let it show in front of their friends. 

“Would you like to say anything?” he asked.

“I don't have any experience in the medical field,” Enjolras said dumbly, still caught off guard.

“My presentation is finished,” Combeferre said helpfully, “If you'd been paying attention you might know that. Do you have anything you want to say to the group before we close the meeting?”

“Oh,” Enjolras blushed, “No. Nothing that I can think of.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, gritting his teeth, “I'm sure.”

Combeferre's shoulders sagged with defeat, “Very well,” he said, “Anyone else?”

“Are we all still up for movie night at ours?” Bossuet piped up, raising his hand. There were murmurs of agreement throughout the room. Enjolras breathed a silent sigh of relief that the subject had changed.

“You said there'd be pizza there, right?” Eponine asked from where she was slouched in her chair with her feet on the nearest table.

“Yeah, our treat.” Joly said.

“Then I'm in.”

“Me too,” Bahorel said, the prospect of free food bringing a huge grin to his face, “I never turn down a free stuffed crust.”

With that everyone began to gather their things together, talking among themselves; Enjolras pulled on his coat, pointedly tying to ignore the feeling of Combeferre's eyes boring into him from the front of the room.

“Hey Enjolras, what's that?”

It was Marius' voice that took him by surprise; he hadn't even noticed he was here. He looked over to see him squinting curiously at him, head tilted. 

“What's what?” he asked.

“You're wearing a ring!”

Enjolras felt like every limb in his body had just turned to stone. _Shit._ He'd completely forgotten about that in the rush to make the meeting on time. He was going to murder Courfeyrac for this later.

“Oh,” he said, as casually as he could muster, “This. Yeah, I am...”

“Enjolras is wearing a ring?” Musichetta said, craning her neck to look, “Oh yeah. It's nice.”

From the corner of his eye Enjolras saw Grantaire fumbling hastily to remove his own; it seemed like Courfeyrac had gotten the sizes slightly off, because he appeared to be struggling.

“What's it for?” Jehan asked, coming over to inspect it as though they were planning on appraising it there and then, “You don't usually wear jewellery.”

“Is it a statement about gender presentation?” Musichetta said, “Because if so then right on, man.”

“It's very pretty,” Cosette agreed, making her way over to get a look, “It suits you!”

“It's on your wedding ring finger,” Marius said, as though he thought Enjolras might have done it by accident.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Eponine snorted, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the inside of her jacket, “Who's Blondie going to marry? Lady Liberty?”

Enjolras cleared his throat, pulling his hand away from Jehan and stuffing it in his pocket.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, “Are we going to movie night or not?”

He realised a moment too late that that was a stupid thing to say. He should have just said the ring was a fashion statement, because his unwillingness to answer and the way he averted his eyes gave him away in an instant 

“Wait,” Eponine said, narrowing her eyes slowly, “ _Is_ it a wedding ring? Or an _engagement_ ring, at least?”

Jehan gasped, covering their mouth with their hands, “Do you have a secret fiancé, Enjolras?” they asked, “Have you been holding out on us all this time?”

“Is that where you went this afternoon?” Feuilly said, scowling.

Enjolras scrambled frantically for an excuse and came up empty. He was backed into a corner. Give him ten minutes and he could have come up with a totally reasonable explanation – but put on the spot, like this? Enjolras was bad at that. It's why he spent so long rehearsing his speeches, getting them down just right. 

“Ah...well...” he started, feeling the words dry up in his throat.

“He's married.” It was Grantaire who finally said it, not deigning to look over at them all from where he was pulling on his coat.

“To who!?” said Jehan.

“To me.”

The reaction his words elicited was a bit frightening; Jehan squealed. Marius and Cosette both gasped. Eponine burst out laughing, apparently thinking it was some kind of elaborate prank. Musichetta's mouth dropped open and Bahorel looked between the two of them in disbelief. Even Feuilly, usually calm and diplomatic, blinked in surprise.

“What?!”

“You heard him,” Enjolras mumbled.

“You guys---what?!” Jehan spluttered, “When?!”

“Today.”

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

“Calm down,” Grantaire said, voice flat, “It's not a real marriage. It was to get his parents off his back, that's all. Hey, Ep, can I blag a cigarette?”

Eponine finally stopped laughing, looking like she'd just been slapped hard across the face.

“I---are you serious?”

“Yeah, I don't have any and I'm broke as fuck.”

“No, no - fuck that, yes you can have a cigarette you cheap asshole – I mean the marriage thing.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire shrugged, “It's not a big deal, right Enjolras?” he looked over at him then, eyes full of unreadable emotions, and Enjolras felt his heart give a little leap in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, mouth still dry, “It's just for legal benefits and to keep my family at bay. Nothing serious.”

“You're kidding me, right?” Musichetta said, eyebrows raised high, “You two? Married?”

“Only legally speaking.”

Eponine turned to look at him, fixing him with such a fierce gaze that Enjolras could practically hear the sirens from Kill Bill blaring in his head.

“You better not hurt him,” she hissed, shoving her cigarette packet into Grantaire's hand like she was asking him to hold her earrings for a fight. Enjolras took a small step back.

“It's not real, Ep,” Grantaire said quietly, “Just leave it.”

Eponine glared straight at Enjolras, still bristling like an angry cat, “If you insist,” she said, “But if he does anything to upset you, he'll regret it.”

“I can't believe you didn't invite us to your wedding,” Bahorel said sadly, “That sucks.”

“Yeah, why didn't you? I could've found you some flowers at short notice,” Jehan whined.

“Jehan, no -we've been over this, you can't keep taking them from Père-Lachaise,” Feuilly said. 

Jehan snorted, “Oh come on! Jim Morrison doesn't need _all_ of them!"

“As Grantaire just said, it wasn't a real wedding,” Enjolras reasoned, trying to fight his way through the throng of their friends to leave the cafe, “So there was no need for any guests or flowers stolen from Jim Morrison's grave."

“But you still got rings?” Cosette said, cocking her head in confusion.

“Compliments of Courfeyrac being a dick,” Grantaire said, lighting up his cigarette as he made his way towards the door.

“Courfeyrac was there?” Musichetta said, “Did anyone else know about this?”

“Joly, Bossuet, and Combeferre.”

“And they didn't mention it to us?” Eponine complained.

“I'm going to kill those boys,” Musichetta decided.

“We asked them not to specifically for this reason,” Grantaire scoffed, taking a drag, “Now let it drop. Are we doing this movie night or no?”

“No,” Jehan said, deadly serious, “Change of plan. You guys just got married; you need to have a wedding reception.”

 

* * *

 

 

The impromptu wedding reception turned out to just be movie night but with a cake that Bahorel ran to the nearest grocery store to buy.

“They were nearly closed, and they didn't have much, so it's not exactly great,” he said when he set it down on the coffee table.

“You don't say,” Enjolras said, raising one eyebrow. It said 'Bon Anniversaire' on it in fancy purple icing. 

“It's the best we could do on short notice,” Jehan argued, “Just say thanks and move on.”

“Thanks.”

“Pizzas on it's way!” Bossuet announced, flopping down on the sofa dramatically, “Best wedding reception ever, am I right?”

“Yeah, who needs a fancy caterer?” Joly said.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, “Yeah, okay.” he turned his attention to Courfeyrac, who had found himself a seat in Combeferre's lap, “This is your fault,” he said, saying what Enjolras had been thinking the whole time.

"I'm sorry," Courfeyrac said, having the good grace to at least look a little guilty, "I thought you'd take them off before you came to the meeting!"

"Whatever."

Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta and Grantaire's apartment was always the main hub for their weekly movie night; mostly because it had two three-seater sofas in it and the most comfortable armchair in the world, which Eponine had commandeered for herself on this occasion.

“So, what are we going to watch?” Marius asked.

“It's a wedding reception,” Courfeyrac said, insulted, “We can't watch movies. Let's put some music on, break out some drinks...”

“I got a few bottles of Prosecco at the grocery store!” Bahorel boasted proudly, “I couldn't afford real champagne, sorry." 

“This is all totally unnecessary,” Enjolras tried to say, exchanging a horrified look with Grantaire from where he was sitting on the other sofa. It was strangely fitting, really. They never agreed on anything, but here they were, united by embarrassment. 

“This isn't a real wedding reception.”

“Yeah, and champagne goes straight to Enjolras' head,” Grantaire remarked.

“Aww, he knows you so well!” Jehan said with a little coo, “That's so cute.”

“ _Everyone_ knows that about me.” Enjolras protested, "Don't you remember the Bastille day party last year?"

"When we had talk you off a bar table and then hold your hair back for an hour?" Courfeyrac snorted, "I _wish_ I could forget."

"Exactly. See?"

“Well it's still cute," Jehan said, "And it's Prosecco, so maybe you'll be fine!”

Enjolras groaned.

“What music do you want?” Feuilly asked, looking through the modest record collection in the house, “All Grantaire has is sad indie shit.”

“The Cure is a goth band, you heathen,” Grantaire muttered.

“Don't worry, I got your back,” Courfeyrac declared, opening up Joly's laptop, “Do you have Spotify? I have an 80's playlist. Hope you don't mind if your first dance is to 'Africa'.”

“There's not going to be any dancing.” Enjolras insisted, wishing he could sink through the sofa and disappear.

“Spoil sport. I forgot how good this playlist was---oh! I _love_ Cyndi Lauper!”


	6. Chapter 6

Grantaire hadn't been to many wedding receptions in his time - his family was so dysfunctional that marriage didn't really come up very often, and usually lasted about a year when it did - but even going off his limited experience, this was one was shaping up to be pretty tragic.

It probably didn't help that the two grooms were sitting on separate sofas, he thought. Even at his most doomed-to-fail family weddings the newlyweds had pretended to like each other for the sake of the photo album – Enjolras wasn't even making a perfunctory effort.

Grantaire wasn't sure if he had the right to be offended by that – after all, what was the protocol in a situation like this? What was the etiquette? They wouldn't have been fooling anyone if they'd tried to act like their arrangement was anything other than a necessary evil. Even still, Grantaire couldn't help but feel a little stung. It wasn't like he'd expected Enjolras to be all cozy with him - of course not - but he didn't need to make _quite_ such a point of sitting as far away from him as humanly possible.

It didn't exactly help a guy's ego.

Everyone else seemed to be having a good time though, so he supposed that had to count for something; Joly was in a state of undress, pole-dancing on his cane for Musichetta, and Courfeyrac had dragged a very reluctant Combeferre up to slow-dance with him - not that Pat Benatar's 'Love is a battlefield' was really a very appropriate song for slow-dancing.

“Do you really not have any glasses?” Enjolras asked, wedged uncomfortably between Bahorel and Feuilly on the sofa. He was clutching a mug of prosecco that he had barely touched.

“No,” Bossuet snorted, draping himself dramatically across Grantaire's lap, “Do you think we're made of money? This isn't the Ritz.”

“Bossuet broke most of them,” Grantaire supplied, “We used to, I swear.”

Enjolras gave him a doubtful look, taking a cautious sip of his drink, “If you say so. Is Marius okay?” he asked, in an obvious effort to change the topic. Grantaire followed his gaze, shrugging.

“Probably.” he said.

Drunk Marius was a cryptid Grantaire had never seen before, but it was a fascinating sight indeed. Half a glass of prosseco had rendered the poor guy useless, his legs working against him with all the grace of a newborn deer. Now he was draped over the back of the armchair, gangly limbs everywhere as he drunkenly yell-sang along to 'Uptown Girl' by Billy Joel.

“He's having a good time.”

“If that's what you call it,” Enjolras said.

“He's going to need carrying home,” Feuilly commented.

“Say no more,” Bahorel offered, flexing his arms so enthusiastically that Enjolras had to lean to the side to avoid being elbowed in the face, “I've got him.”

“Our hero,” Grantaire cooed, just as the music paused and Jehan came sprinting over, nearly spilling the drink they had in one hand.

“It's time to cut the cake!” They announced.

Grantaire's smile dropped right off his face. He'd almost forgotten about that.

“It's a _birthday_ cake,” Enjolras said, looking at it disdainfully.

“Yeah, you're not going to light the candles on it, are you?” Grantaire mumbled.

“Don't be silly, wedding cakes don't have candles,” Jehan snorted, producing a large kitchen knife out of nowhere.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, “I hope that's from our kitchen and you don't just carry that around with you.”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Jehan said, passing it to Enjolras, “Here. You have to do it.”

“Why?”

“Tradition.”

Enjolras made a disparaging sound, “Of course, because this wedding is the very picture of tradition...” he muttered dryly.

“Hush, don't ruin it,” Jehan scolded.

“Yeah, I spent good money on that cake!”

“It was five euros – you didn't even take the price label off it,” Enjolras said.

“Exactly – five euros is a lot of money for a student,” Bahorel argued.

“Yeah, we don't all have a silver spoon up our ass,” Eponine put in sharply.

Grantaire felt the air around Enjolras turn ice cold even from where he was sitting on the other sofa; he pursed his lips, taking the knife and resting it on the cake. He looked like he'd much rather be resting it against their friends' throats right about now, and Grantaire had to admit he'd have probably joined him if he did.

“Grantaire, go on – you have to take it too,” Jehan urged. Grantaire moved to do as he was told, his heart leaping up into his throat as he lay his hand over Enjolras'; he felt his breath hitch and his skin tingle at the contact. Enjolras seemed to have been transformed to stone beneath his touch. Or marble, perhaps - he _definitely_ looked like he could have been carved out of marble.

“Okay, cut!” Courfeyrac said, lifting up his phone to take a photo.

And so they did, quickly, to get it over with.

“There,” Enjolras said flatly, letting the knife clatter onto the plate, “Are you all satisfied?”

“Just about,” Bahorel said.

“Oh! Oh! Let me give a speech!” Courfeyrac demanded, raising his mug high above his head as he pushed his way to the front of the group, “I'm the best man! I get to make a speech!”

“No,” Enjolras groaned, “Courfeyrac---”

“I'm the _best man_ ,” Courfeyrac repeated forcefully, springing up onto the sofa next to Enjolras before he could protest. He took a large swig of his drink, clearing his throat.

“Enjolras, Grantaire - this was probably a really bad idea and I'm sure you'll both regret it horribly,” he began, teetering precariously where he stood, “But who am I to judge, right? I've made poor life choices. I took sociology when we _all_ know I should've been a drama student. No one is perfect. I mean, I've never rushed into a fraud-marriage with one of my friends, but like, live your best life, am I right?”

“Hear hear!” Bahorel yelled.

“To poor decisions!” Jehan cried.

“Exactly!” Courfeyrac said, nearly spilling his drink in his eagerness, “So yeah, what can I say? I'm sure this could have gone worse, so, there's that.”

“Courfeyrac, I think you should get off the sofa,” Combeferre said tiredly, “You could fall...”

“I'm not done!” Courfeyrac argued, “Anyway, where was I ---oh, yeah. Grantaire, treat him well, okay? Enjolras is a sensitive soul, deep, deep, _deep_ down. I'd say don't hurt him, but I think you're the one who is more likely to get hurt in this situation anyway---”

Grantaire grimaced, not daring to look over at Enjolras and wishing himself invisible.

“So, to close,” Courfeyrac said, “I'm just going to say what we're all thinking about this arrangement---”

“Don't.” Combeferre said instantly, “Don't, Courf. You're done, okay?”

“But---”

“You're done.”

Courfeyrac seemed to physically deflate, as though all the air had just been sucked out of him – and all his bravado with it.

“I guess...” he agreed, reluctantly stepping down from his perch with Combeferre's assistance. Grantaire let out a sigh of relief; he could have kissed Combeferre in that moment. He was pretty sure what 'everyone was thinking' was that Grantaire was a complete idiot for agreeing to fake-marry the guy they all knew he'd been pitifully in love with for years. It was an open secret that everyone except Enjolras seemed to be in on. Grantaire was Courfeyrac having one more glass of prosseco away from total ruin.

“Well,” Enjolras said stiffly, “That was entertaining.”

“That's a word for it,” Grantaire mumbled, shooting Combeferre a grateful look.

“What about your first dance?” Joly asked, “Isn't that a thing at weddings?”

“No.” Enjolras said bluntly, “I don't dance.”

That was the end of that.

 

-

 

Mercifully the rest of the evening passed uneventfully - they ate too much pizza, finished off the last of the alcohol and blasted 80's music well into the night. The neighbours were going to be pissed, sure, but Grantaire couldn't find it in him to care.

“It's getting late,” Bossuet remarked, in that tired, burnt-out way that only came at the end of a party, “Maybe we should call it a night.”

Grantaire was inclined to agree. His eyelids were so heavy he could barely keep them open, but going to bed would mean facing the unthinkable; lying awake, alone in his cold double bed with nothing but the ache in his chest, the wedding ring he couldn't seem to get off his finger, and the memory of a kiss – god, a kiss that he'd fantasized a thousand times before! He looked over at Enjolras, drifting off to sleep on the other sofa with his mug still in his hand, and that ache in his chest grew distinctly worse. Even with a disgruntled crease in his brow and disheveled hair he was radiant. It was agony.

“It's not late, it's early,” Courfeyrac shouted from where he was dancing, arms snaked around Combeferre's shoulders, “It's only 2:00AM!”

“We have classes in the morning,” Combeferre reminded him, yawning.

“Urgh, weak,” Courfeyrac said with a pout, “ _Fine,_ we'll go home.”

“Thanks,” Combeferre said, “You can't marry a rich doctor if I don't graduate.”

“I guess.”

“Bed sounds _really_ nice right about now,” Joly commented, watching as Bahorel scooped a passed-out Marius up into his arms, hoisting him up bridal style. Musichetta had already retired to bed hours ago, dreading her early shift in the Musain, and Jehan was curled up in a ball in the armchair, fast asleep with a blanket covering them up to their nose.

“You going to manage him okay, Bahorel?”

“Oh yeah - he's like a ragdoll!” Bahorel grinned, looking down at Marius like he was a sleeping baby, “I had no idea he was so light!”

“You're _sure_ you don't mind walking us back?” Cosette asked, taking Feuilly's arm, “It's a bit out of your way...”

“Fortunately we're gentlemen,” Feuilly joked, “And whilst I don't doubt you could lift Marius, making it all the way home with him might be a bit of a struggle.”

Cosette batted him lightly, “You underestimate me, good sir,” she said, “But thank you for the escort.”

“Goodnight!” Bahorel called over his shoulder as they headed for the door, “Don't stay up too late!”

“Don't plan on it,” Joly said, “Bossuet?”

“I think he's compromised,” Grantaire reported, pointing down at Bossuet, who had finally given up the good fight and fallen asleep with his head in Grantaire's lap.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. He's drooling on me.”

“Sorry.” Joly gave a guilty smile, “Guess it means more room in the bed for me, hey?”

“I guess so," Grantaire said, "Goodnight, man,"

“Goodnight. Congratulations, I think.” Joly said, scowling.

“Thanks - I think.”

“Courfeyrac, will you help me clean up in the kitchen?” Combeferre asked, removing his glasses for a moment to rub his eyes, "It seems only fair - we made some of this mess."

“Fortunately for you I'm drunk enough to agree to that,” Courfeyrac said, practically hanging off Combeferre's arm, “It's not even our kitchen! Grantaire, this is a wedding present, okay? Let it be known that normally I wash dishes for no man.”

“He really doesn't.” Combeferre sighed.

“I'm going out on the roof for a smoke,” Eponine decided, retrieving her lighter from the inside of her jacket, “R, you wanna come with? You look like you could do with it.”

“I'm good,” Grantaire said, “I'm tired. Not moving.”

Eponine glanced over at Enjolras, her lips curling into a foxish smile, “Uh huh. You sure that's why...?”

“I'm sure.” Grantaire said, “Just go smoke, Ep.”

“Alright – I was just asking.”

With that she was gone, and Grantaire suddenly became vividly aware that he was now alone with Enjolras – well, and Bossuet and Jehan, who were so dead to the world he doubted they would've noticed a tornado if it had torn through the room.

“Are we going home soon?” Enjolras mumbled suddenly, making him jump. His eyes were still closed and his head was resting on the arm of the sofa, but apparently he wasn't asleep after all.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Grantaire said, shuffling awkwardly along the sofa so that Bossuet's head was no longer in his lap, “Combeferre and Courfeyrac are just cleaning up in the kitchen, I don't think they'll be long...”

“Mm. Did everyone else leave?”

“Most of them.” Grantaire told him, “Eponine is having a smoke. Jehan passed out.”

“Well at least I outlasted someone,” Enjolras said, sitting up and holding his head with one hand, “I can't wait to get home...”

“Do you need any help?”

“I'll be okay. Courfeyrac and Combeferre will prop me up if need be,” Enjolras said, “It was very gallant of you to offer, though,” he joked.

“Well, you know me,” Grantaire said, raising one eyebrow, “A regular knight in shining armour.”

“Mhmm. Of course...” Enjolras said, grimacing, “Urgh, my head...”

“Hungover already?”

“Apparently. I'm not cut out for this.”

“Drink lots of water,” Grantaire advised.

“I'm sure I'll manage. Tonight was...interesting.”

“Our friends are monsters,” Grantaire agreed, smirking, “But it wasn't too bad, even with them being awful...”

“They'll look for any excuse for a party,” Enjolras agreed, “But this was a bit surreal.”

“This whole day has been surreal,” Grantaire said honestly, “I never had myself down as the marrying sort, true, but this definitely isn't how I imagined my wedding night.” he teased.

“Oh,” Enjolras blinked once, suddenly noticeably more awake; he went bright pink to the tips of his ears, “It is, isn't it?”

“What?”

“Our wedding night.”

Grantaire laughed uncomfortably, “I mean, _technically,_ ” he said, “But like, it's not a _real_ wedding, so ergo it's not a real wedding night. And it's not like this is the 1800's or something – we don't need to, you know, consummate the marriage or anything,” he said with a weak laugh. He wished he'd never said it – it was meant to lighten the mood, but all it had done was put a million inappropriate thoughts in his head.

“True...” Enjolras said, still flushed, “Sorry. I'm just still reeling from all of this, to be honest...”

“That's understandable. It's not every day you get married.”

“It isn't. This has been a strange day. But you were right – it could be worse,” Enjolras said, “We could have ended up like Marius.”

Grantaire grinned, “Well he's Cosette's problem now.”

Enjolras smiled, “Even I'm not that much of a lightweight.”

“I don't know – you're pretty close, if you ask me...”

“Don't be an ass.”

“Sorry, sorry – it's in my nature.” Grantaire looked down into his glass, watching the bubbles in his drink, “You know, for a second when you said 'it could be worse' I thought you meant the marriage thing...”

“Oh,” Enjolras frowned, “Well, that too,” he said.

“Sure. It's okay, you know? You don't have to pretend I was your ideal candidate for this.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well you asked Combeferre and Courfeyrac first,” Grantaire said. He was starting to wish his alcohol tolerance was as low as Marius'; three glasses of prosecco and he was still barely feeling it. This conversation would have been much easier if he was drunk, he thought.

“They're my best friends,” Enjolras pointed out, “Of course I asked them first. You shouldn't take that personally.”

Grantaire managed a small smile, “Who else did you ask?”

“No one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I won't lie – I did contemplate asking a few of the others,” Enjolras admitted, looking almost sheepish, “But it was you I chose to actually ask.”

“Why?”

“You're non-judgemental.”

“ _Me?_ ” Grantaire couldn't help but laugh; the sound escaped his body before he had a chance to stop it, “The bubbles must have gone to your head more than I thought!”

“Oh shut up, you know what I mean,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes, “You can be a little...antagonistic, it's true,”

“A _little_?”

“A little.” Enjolras repeated, smiling as though he was trying very hard not to laugh, “But when it really comes down to it, you're a good person. I knew you wouldn't make fun of me – well, not for the situation with my parents, anyway. Maybe for everything else, but not that. You know too well what it's like...” he glanced down as he said the last part, and Grantaire noticed him grip his mug a little tighter. His heart clenched. He wanted to be brave enough to reach out and comfort him – to put a gentle hand on his shoulder and tell him he understood. But he couldn't – he didn't dare.

“I do,” He said instead. It was an understatement.

“I'm glad it was you I asked,” Enjolras whispered, “Combeferre may be right; it is a ridiculous idea. But I'm glad I'm making this mistake with you...”

Grantaire felt all the air leave his lungs all at once.

“I'm glad too.” he said.

“Good. You know, you can sit here if you like,” Enjolras murmured, patting the empty space on the sofa beside him. Grantaire went without needing to be offered twice; christ, maybe the alcohol was starting to hit him after all, because he could have sworn he saw a tinge of red still lingering in Enjolras' cheeks, and god, his lips looked like they were just _crying out_ to be kissed, sweetly and deeply - and only with explicit consent, of course.

“Anyway,” Enjolras said, looking up at him from beneath long eyelashes, “Thank you, is what I'm meaning to say. Truly.” He relinquished his vicelike grip on his mug with one hand to lay it on Grantaire's. His blue eyes were bright even in the low light. Music was still playing faintly in the background - 'Lovesong', by The Cure - and the atmosphere in the room was hazy and dreamlike. Grantaire thought the moment was entirely too perfect to be real.

“You're welcome,” He said, feeling like his voice had been stolen away. There was a long pause, heavy with the weight of the thousands of unspoken words Grantaire wished he had the balls to say. The song was still playing. Their knees touched. Enjolras shifted a little closer, his expression intense, and---

“Alright! Let's go!”

Courfeyrac came stumbling back into the room with Combeferre on his heels, and Enjolras jerked away so abruptly that Grantaire thought he might get whiplash.

“Taxis here!”

“Finally,” Enjolras said, getting hurriedly to his feet; he was red-faced and distracted, eyes looking everywhere but at Grantaire.

“I'm exhausted," he mumbled, picking up his coat and pulling it on, "Goodnight, Grantaire...”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, watching him go in stunned silence; “Goodnight...”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras sighed, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the taxi window and watching the city pass by. There was a brilliant juxtaposition to Paris at night - neoclassical buildings from the age of the revolution plastered in posters for nightclubs, carved statues of Greek deities standing in silent judgement, their solemn faces illuminated by harsh floodlights. Paris after dark was coy about her age - she could make a man feel like he'd walked the streets before in another life, in another time. It was a liminal space, a marriage (ha!) between two worlds most would think ill-suited to coexisting.

A bit like Grantaire and himself, Enjolras thought, closing his eyes.

His head was still throbbing, the result of both too much prosecco and his interaction with Grantaire. It had been strange; for a fleeting moment Enjolras had thought they were going to kiss. Stranger still, he hadn't had any objections to the idea - far from it, in fact. He'd felt the breath leave his lungs, his lips part in anticipation of something that had never come. 

“Enjolras?”

He opened his eyes suddenly and turned to Combeferre, sitting beside him in the backseat, “Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be.”

“No reason...” Combeferre said warily, “But you look a little...concerned...”

“That's just my face.” Enjolras muttered.

“It's true,” Courfeyrac slurred from the passenger's seat, “He has some amazing resting bitch face - you know that, Ferre.”

“Thanks, Courf,” Enjolras frowned.

“Alright, true,” Combeferre said slowly, “But something is clearly bothering you.”

Enjolras inwardly cursed him for his observational skills. He shrugged, glancing out of the window again as they drove past Place De La Concorde.

“I'm fine.” he said, watching the streetlights shining off the fountains.

“Did you and Grantaire have an argument?” Combeferre pressed.

“No.”

“Are you starting to regret your decision?” he asked, “Not to say I told you so, or anything...”

“I'm not,” Enjolras said, a little sharply, “Really. I'm fine.”

“I'm sure you are."

Enjolras ignored the doubt in his friend's voice. He wasn't in the mood.

 

* * *

 

The apartment was cold when they got back. Enjolras shrugged off his coat and headed straight for bed, determined to avoid another round of twenty-questions from Combeferre. His terrible life choices weren't any of his business. Sure, they were best friends. Sure, Combeferre was basically his much wiser, much more composed older brother, but still – couldn't he just leave Enjolras to mess up his life by himself? He was doing a fantastic job of it. Truly exceptional. 

“I gather you're staying over,” He muttered, watching as Courfeyrac kicked off his shoes in the hallway.

“Too drunk to go back to my place.” Courfeyrac reported, struggling with his jacket, “Combeferre will take good care of me. Won't you, mon chéri?”

“Someone has to.” Combeferre said flatly, still fixing Enjolras with that judgemental, I-know-better stare he had down to an art.

“Not me, thankfully,” Enjolras said.

"Hey, I'm a delight," Courfeyrac argued.

"Uh-huh. Well, goodnight," Enjolras said, before adding something scathingly; “And keep it down – the walls are thin.”

“Oh shush, I'm too drunk for sex - you're just jealous that it's your wedding night and you're not getting laid.” Courfeyrac said, sticking his tongue out. Enjolras tensed up.

“Shut up,” he hissed, apparently just a bit too defensively – because Combeferre and Courfeyrac both raised their eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh my god,” Couyrfeyrac said, “I was only kidding, but you totally are! Holy shit!”

“I'm not!”

“You are!”

“I'm _not_!”

“Oh, Enj,” Courfeyrac bounded over to hug him, hanging off him like a dead weight, “Don't feel bad about it! If you call Grantaire I'm sure he'd be up for a late-night booty call...”

“I hate you,” Enjolras sighed, awkwardly petting Courfeyrac's curls, “Go to bed, okay? You're wasted.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac said, hicupping, “Sorry. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. It was only a suggestion.”

“A bad suggestion,” Enjolras told him, prying his arms from around his shoulders and guiding him back over to Combeferre - and the open door to Combeferre's bedroom.

“I guess. Goodnight, Enj – I love you!”

“I love you too.” Enjolras said, watching him go. Combeferre lingered in the doorway for a few moments, brows knit together in concern.

“Are you sure you don't want to talk about anything?” he asked, once Courfeyrac had disappeared into the room.

Enjolras shrugged, “I don't know,” he admitted, “It's complicated.”

“When isn't it?” Combeferre smiled sadly, “Was it tonight? It was fun, granted, but a bit insensitive,” he said, “I tried to talk them out of it, I swear...”

“No, it's fine – the party was kind of nice, really. They didn't mean any harm," Enjolras said, “It was when you and Courfeyrac were in the kitchen...”

“Oh?”

“Grantaire and I were talking, and it was getting kind of deep...” Enjolras shifted uncomfortably, hugging his arms, “And I swear, Ferre, there was a moment when I thought...when I thought we were going to _kiss_...” his stomach fluttered just thinking about it - or maybe that was the alcohol. 

Combeferre, to his credit, didn't give the statement the level of overreaction that Courfeyrac might have. His eyes widened ever so slightly, but other than that he remained stoic as ever.

“Oh,” he said, and Enjolras thought it was woefully inadequate for the situation.

“That's it? 'Oh'?” Enjolras said, "That's all you have to say?"

“Well, would you have been okay with that?” Combeferre inquired.

“I don't know. I think so.” Enjolras whispered, feeling as though he were confessing to murder, “I mean, I didn't exactly make any effort to stop it. It just...didn't happen.”

“Do you think you wanted to?”

“Maybe. But that's normal, right? I was drunk..."

"Hardly."

"Well my inhibitions were still lowered," Enjolras protested, "And kissing is nice, no matter who it is, right? Granted I don't have much experience with it, but still. Wanting to kiss him doesn't mean anything..."

Combeferre's lip quirked into a slight smile, “Well, he _is_ your husband..."

“My fake husband,” Enjolras corrected; it seemed like he was fighting a losing battle every time he reiterated that.

“Technically your marriage isn't fake,” Combeferre pointed out unhelpfully, “Just your relationship.”

“Thank you for that,” Enjolras sighed, “I almost forgot. Look, just...leave it. I'm sure it was just the prosecco. I probably imagined a moment where there wasn't one.”

“If you insist,” Combeferre said, “Goodnight, Enjolras. Sleep well.”

“If I can.”

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras woke with a start, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, stunned by his own imagination. He'd been dreaming - reliving the day's events exactly as they'd unfolded. But at the end of the night, when Grantaire had cracked a joke about it being their wedding night, Enjolras hadn't stammered like an awkward teenager. No, he'd laughed about it, sidled closer to Grantaire on the sofa and put his hand on his knee; Grantaire's laughter had died in his throat, an intense look had come into his eyes, hungry and fierce, and then _...well._

That was definitely a new development.

He'd always just assumed that _everyone_ thought Grantaire was handsome. Despite all his self-depreciating remarks he was practically magnetic - dark, intelligent eyes, a sharp jawline and mop of ink-black curls. Even his perpetual stubble was endearing, Enjolras thought – it made him a little rough around the edges, but in just the right way to make him look unfairly attractive.

Surely _everyone_ found Grantaire appealing?

He'd never given it much thought before. It had seemed totally normal to assume that everyone was at least a little attracted to him, because how couldn't they be?

And it wasn't just his looks – he was full of wit and clever comebacks, with a smirk that the devil would covet and more talent than seemed humanly possible. He was warm and lively despite his depression, and his loyalty to his friends was unquestionable. It only followed, then, that everyone had to be a bit taken with him?

Right?

Enjolras was starting to doubt that.

He blinked up at the ceiling, stomach in knots, and thought back to earlier that night – to that moment, that drawn-out heartbeat when he'd been sure they might kiss. He'd wanted it. He'd really, really wanted it - even felt a pang of bitter disappointment when they hadn't.

The realisation hit him like a Metro train. His heart gave a leap, fluttering like a trapped butterfly in his chest.

Oh.

_Oh no._

 

* * *

He was the first person in the kitchen the next morning, a fact he considered a blessing; he didn't know if he could handle Combeferre's all-knowing gaze right now. It had been a night of uncomfortable epiphanies and endless tossing and turning; a stern word from Combeferre was the last thing he needed. 

He went about making a pot of coffee, tapping his fingers nervously against the side of his mug. His head was still reeling.

After a few minutes Courfeyrac came padding into the room, clad only in his boxers and a 'NASA' t-shirt that evidently belonged to Combeferre. His hair was sticking up at all angles, and he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Drunk Courfeyrac was a riot - hungover Courfeyrac, however, was like the risen dead.

“Morning,” he yawned, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning,” Enjolras said.

“Oh, man, you don't look good,” Courfeyrac said, “Did you not sleep well or something...?”

“I slept,” Enjolras said gravely, “And I'm starting to really wish I hadn't.”

“That's not ominous at all...” Courfeyrac said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, “What's up?”

“Nothing.”

“God, you're like a broken record lately,” he rolled his eyes, slumping down into the seat next to him, “Something is obviously wrong, Enj. Can you just stop with the brooding attitude and tell me? We're friends.”

Enjolras sighed, looking down into his drink as though it held all the answers to the universe, “I had a weird dream.”

“Seriously? _That's_ what's bothering you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need Jehan to like, decipher it's meaning for you or some shit?”

“No. Definitely not.” Enjolras muttered, feeling his cheeks growing hot, “It's meaning was _very_ clear.”

“Oh?”

“Grantaire was in it.”

“And?”

“And me.”

“And?” Courfeyrac asked, taking a swig from his mug.

“And, well...it wasn't exactly PG-13.”

Enjolras realised a moment too late that he should have probably waited until Courfeyrac had swallowed his coffee before telling him this; his friend gave a sudden choking sound, coughing loudly as he practically inhaled his drink. 

“ _What?!_ ” he cried when he got his breath back. 

“You heard me. Don't make me repeat it.”

“Holy _shit,_ you had a sex dream about R?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras groaned, sure that he was now embarrassingly red, “It's not like I chose the subject. I didn't dream it on _purpose_. It just happened...”

“Wow,” Courfeyrac said, letting out a low whistle, “Well, if that's the only way you can get some action, good for you.”

“Oh shut up.”

“I'm just teasing. You're cute, you could get it for real if you wanted.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said darkly, shoulders sagging, “That's not the point, though. Courfeyrac...I'm worried.”

“About what?”

Enjolras looked down again, folding his hands in his lap. His heart was pounding in his chest.

“I'm worried I might actually have feelings for him.” he confessed, voice so quiet it was like some part of him didn't want Courfeyrac to hear.

Shockingly, Courfeyrac didn't react like Enjolras had thought he might – he didn't gasp or make a joke. He just sat there, absorbing what Enjolras had just told him, and then placed one hand gently on Enjolras'.

“What kind of feelings?” he asked softly, “You need to know before you go making any decisions about what to do. Don't mistake being horny for someone one time in a dream as like, true love. There's a big difference.”

“That's not it,” Enjolras assured him, “I think I really, really like him. Courf, I...I think I've felt this way about him for a while.”

“Oh thank god you said it,” Courfeyrac said, giving an audible sigh and leaning back in his seat, “ _Finally._ I feel like I've been holding my breath for a thousand years. You're like, the last person to know.”

“What?”

“Well, besides Grantaire, of course,” Courfeyrac said, waving it off, “But the rest of us have all known forever that you have a Thing for him.”

Enjolras felt all the blood rush to his face again, “Really?”

“Really.”

“How?”

“Oh honey – it's so obvious,” Courfeyrac said, looking pityingly at him, “You're always picking fights with him and looking for an excuse to talk to him,”

“He picks the fights!” Enjolras said defensively.

“And you let him, because you love it. You know full well that if you told him he'd have to leave the meeting for making snide comments he'd shut up in an instant. But you don't – you let him needle you and then you go along with it. You crave his attention.”

Enjolras flushed, thinking back to all the times he could have asked Grantaire to be quiet but didn't. Courfeyrac had a point. He enjoyed their debates – it was never nasty, always witty and entertaining and---and scarily like flirting.

_Oh._

“I...maybe you have a point,” he conceded.

“I know I do. And do you remember when he brought that girl to the Musain last year? They'd only been on one date but you got all puffed up and moody about it for days.”

“She was disruptive!”

“No more than Grantaire is.”

“But---I---”

“You were jealous. It's okay, Enj,” Courfeyrac grinned, “You can admit it. It's a normal emotion. You were good, you didn't let it rule you, you didn't do anything to try to split them up or anything – but you felt it, and that's okay.”

Enjolras remembered it well; she was a nice enough person, and she hadn't done anything to warrant Enjolras' wrath, but he still hadn't been able to shake the uncomfortable feeling he got around her. He'd told himself it was 'gut instinct' telling him that she was bad news, and privately he'd been relieved when Grantaire had turned up alone to the next meeting.

Shit.

Courfeyrac was right.

“Why didn't you _tell_ me?!” he cried.

“It was something you needed to figure out on your own terms!” Courfeyrac argued, “You'd have accused us of meddling, and you know it!”

Enjolras opened his mouth to argue, but the words never reached his lips. He was right again, of course. If any of their friends had tried to tell him he should think introspectively about his feelings for Grantaire he would have told them to back off and that they were _wrong -_ very, very wrong.

“Fuck,” he said, by way of response. Admittedly, this wasn't his most eloquent moment.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac gave him a sympathetic smile, “Sorry.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Enjolras repeated, head in his hands, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell him?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Enjolras said, just the thought sending him into panic, “After we just got sham-married? He'll think I'm a creep. He'll think I set it up on purpose. No, telling him is the _last_ thing I need to do right now...”

“Are you sure about that? Wouldn't communicating be, like, a good thing? Combeferre always says that communication is key.”

“Well Combeferre isn't in my shoes, okay?” Enjolras said hotly, “When have you _ever_ known Grantaire and I to communicate effectively? It would be a nightmare.”

“So instead you're going to do what, exactly?” Courfeyrac asked.

“I'm going to pretend this conversation never happened. Or my dream, for that matter, or any of these feelings.” Enjolras decided firmly, straightening up in his chair, “As far as Grantaire is concerned, nothing has changed.”

“This doesn't sound very healthy,” Courfeyrac commented.

“Well the alternative will probably kill me, so I'll take unhealthy where I must,” Enjolras mumbled, “I'll just go on as normal. It'll be fine. I don't want to make things weird."

“Alright...” Courfeyrac looked like he wanted to say more, but mercifully he chose not to, instead taking an exaggerated sip of his coffee, “Anyway, you're going to want to get dressed; aren't you meeting your parents this afternoon?”

Enjolras' blood ran cold - he'd completely forgotten about that. He'd pushed it out of his mind at first, determined not to dwell on it, and then with all his confusing thoughts about Grantaire it had become quite unimportant.

“Shit,” he said, “I'm not having a good day.”

Courfeyrac grinned from ear-to-ear, "And it's not even 9AM!"

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for a bit of transphobia/deadnaming etc. I tried to keep it to a minimum, as a trans man I don't want to write it any more than I want to read it, so, yeah. 
> 
> Also, I never have Enjolras mention his actual first name - his deadname is mentioned, but obviously, that's not his name, and I always feel weird about giving Les Amis first names, so that'll remain a mystery.

Grantaire was certain that at this rate he was going to wear the pavement down beneath his feet. He'd barely slept the night before, instead laying awake tormented by his conversation with Enjolras at the party. For a brief moment he'd thought they might kiss, but that idea was completely ridiculous, alcohol or no.

Besides, he had more pressing matters than imagined kisses to worry about; he was standing outside a trendy bistro just off Place De Clichy, waiting for Enjolras to join him to meet his parents. They were probably already seated inside, wondering what the scruffy looking stranger outside was doing pacing back and forth. 

Enjolras was running ten minutes late – and Enjolras was _never_ late, except for their wedding day, which, the nasty voice in Grantaire's head said, meant he wasn't going to show up. He pushed the thought aside, pacing again.

No – Enjolras had to show up.

He had a dreaded appointment with his shitty parents to keep. Grantaire sighed, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

At that exact moment he spotted a familiar head of golden hair emerge from the crowded street, Enjolras looking as though he'd sprinted there from the Met.

“I'm sorry,” He said when he saw Grantaire, “I almost got cold feet.”

“I guess it's a compliment that you got cold feet for this and not our wedding,” Grantaire joked weakly, offering his cigarette to Enjolras, “Want a drag?”

“I don't smoke.” Enjolras said, wrinkling his nose.

“We've all seen you stress smoke, Enjolras,” Grantaire informed him, “It's an open secret.”

Enjolras huffed but didn't even attempt to defend himself, snatching the cigarette from him and taking a long drag, “Fuck, I'm shaking,” he said, sounding almost angry with himself.

“Nervous?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Sorry.” Grantaire shoved his hands into his pockets, looking down, “I'd tell you not to worry, but that would be shitty of me.”

Enjolras smiled sadly, “Thanks anyway. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Grantaire said, straightening up; he suddenly became painfully aware of his appearance, “Do I, uh, look okay...?”

He'd dug the nicest clothes he owned out of the back of his wardrobe for the occasion, determined to look at least mildly respectable to Enjolras' parents. He doubted it had made any difference; he'd forgotten to shave in his haste to leave the house, and a sleepless night had left his hair a scraggly mess. If it hadn't been for the nice button-down and the smart blazer, he could have probably passed for homeless.

“You look great,” Enjolras said, looking at him strangely; he must have thought otherwise, Grantaire thought, but was too polite to say so. That was a first. Maybe this fake-marriage had brought about in Enjolras the sudden urge to be dishonest in other ways.

“Thanks,” he said, feeling sick, “You do too.”

Enjolras' cheeks turned pink, “Thanks. My parents won't think so,” he murmured, dropping his gaze, “They'll probably say something awful about why I'm not wearing a dress or make-up...”

“Well they can fuck off.” Grantaire said bluntly, “Sorry – but they can. They're assholes."

He probably shouldn't have talked about someone else's parents like that, but Enjolras' lips twitched into a smile and so he couldn't find it in himself to regret it.

“So,” he said, “What's the story, then?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, confused.

“For us. Your parents will want to know about how we met and stuff, right?”

Enjolras blanched, “Oh,” he said, “Good point. Uh, how do you think we met?”

“I definitely charmed my way into your heart by answering art questions for you at the Louvre,” Grantaire joked, “I was obviously super knowledgeable and you were totally into that, so we went for coffee afterwards to continue our discussion.”

“My parents will never buy that I was at the Louvre,” Enjolras said, snorting, “I appreciate art but I've never had the time to actually go.”

“Well---wait, what?” Grantaire stopped in his tracks, stunned, “You've never been to the Louvre?”

“No.”

“You? You've lived in Paris for _how_ long?”

“Years?" Enjolras said, looking a little guilty.

Grantaire blinked, taken aback, “Wow,” he said, “Well. We'll have to remedy that a different time.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. Anyway, okay – 'no' to the Louvre. Where else could we meet?”

“Maybe we ran into each other on the Metro?” Enjolras suggested, shrugging, “We were running to catch the same train and we ended up crushed together at rush hour, and we got talking? And then when I went to get off at my stop, you asked for my number.”

“Why do I have to ask for your number? You totally asked for mine,” Grantaire said, smirking, “I don't have the self-confidence to ask anyone for their number, let alone someone like _you_..."

Enjolras scowled, “What do you mean 'someone like me'?”

Grantaire felt his heart leap up into his throat, “Uh, well, you know – you're hot. Like, from a conventional standpoint,” he said, panicking internally when he saw the odd look on Enjolras' face, “Not that you're _my_ type or anything,” he added, “But you're attractive. You know - conventionally."

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, suddenly going rather quiet. He looked down.

“Alright – the Met it is.” he decided, “I asked for your number and – even though I'm not your type -” he said it a little coldly, “-you agreed and we went on a date the next day. We hit it off and the rest is history.”

Grantaire nodded, “When did we first get together?”

“Uh, sometime in June?”

“You don't even remember the date? What kind of lousy boyfriend are you?”

Enjolras pouted, thumping him on the arm.

“Sorry, sorry - how about June 5th?”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, “I can remember that.”

“And when did we get married?” Grantaire pressed, “They can't know it was yesterday.”

“July 14th,” Enjolras decided firmly.

“Bastille day?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, fighting the urge to laugh, “Are you serious?”

“What? Is that not a believable day for me to want to get married?” Enjolras challenged, puffing up a little.

“It is,” Granraire conceded, feeling incredibly fond, “Okay, fine. Bastille day. It'll be easy to remember, at least.”

“Okay, good,” Enjolras glanced at his phone, all the colour draining out of his face, “We're like 15 minutes late. They're going to kill me.”

“I won't let them,” Grantaire vowed, “I know this isn't a real marriage, but what kind of husband would I be if I let your parents speed up 'til death do us part' that quickly and did nothing?”

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispered, “It'll be bad,” he warned, “They're going to misgender me...”

“Well I'll correct them - if you want me to.”

Enjolras smiled weakly, stubbing out his cigarette and tossing it into a nearby bin, “Thank you."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as though steeling himself to ride into battle, and then reached and took Grantaire's hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Once inside it was easy to spot Enjolras' parents; they were too well-dressed for the establishment, looking as though they were already devising reasons to complain to the manager. Enjolras' father had the stoic face of a man who had never learned how to smile and his mother, dressed head-to-toe in designer clothing, had the same glorious golden curls as her son but none of his kindness. 

The two of them exuded such an unapproachable air that for a moment Grantaire found himself stumped, wondering just how the two people in front of him could have possibly produced Enjolras, with all his warmth and passion and desire to help people.

Enjolras' mother raised her eyebrows as they made their way over, her lips pursed.

“Marie,” she said, getting to her feet to greet him; Enjolras grimaced but didn't correct her, standing still as a statue as she kissed his cheeks, “You're late, darling,”

“I know, mother, I'm sorry,” Enjolras said, sitting down, “The Met was busy.”

“You're still using public transport?” Madame Enjolras wrinkled her nose, “You know we've offered to buy you a car.”

“I don't like driving in the city,” Enjolras reminded her. From what Grantaire remembered, Enjolras didn't like driving at all; he was a ball of anxiety and road rage waiting to happen.

“Then a least get a taxi,” His father muttered.

“I like the Metro,” Enjolras argued, “It's full of life.”

“If you're sure.”

“I am.”

“Was this really the best place to meet up?” His mother sniffed, looking around the bistro, “You know I hate this part of the city...”

“I love it.” Enjolras said.

“If you insist. Your voice is different."

"That'll be the testosterone," Enjolras muttered, "It does that."

"Well it doesn't suit you."

Enjolras looked as though he was biting back a response.

"And who is this, then?” Madame Enjolras asked suddenly, raising her chin and looking indifferently down her nose at Grantaire, “A friend from school?”

“No,” Enjolras said, “This is Grantaire. My husband.”

“Oh.” His mother recoiled instantly, shaking her head, “Oh heavens no, dear,” she said, as though Enjolras was eight years old and had just asked to keep a stray puppy he'd brought home. Grantaire felt himself tense up in his seat. He knew he wasn't good enough for Enjolras – of course he did - but he'd never had anyone say it to him so directly.

“Oh heavens _yes,_ ” Enjolras said tartly, “He's a good man.”

“He looks like you picked him up off the street,” Monsieur Enjolras said, gesturing to Grantaire, “You, boy - what do you do?”

It took Grantaire a moment to realise he was actually being spoken to and not at – until now they seemed to have been regarding him like an animal in a zoo, incapable of speech.

“Oh---I'm an art student,”

“Really, Marie?” Madame Enjolras let out a woeful sound, “An art student?”

“He's very good,” Enjolras said defensively, squeezing Grantaire's hand so tightly Grantaire thought he might lose circulation in his arm.

“Of course he is.” His father said, voice condescending; he looked at Grantaire again, his grave expression barely changing, “What about your family? Where are they from?”

“Auvergne,” Grantaire said, “They own a vineyard.”

Strictly speaking that was a lie; his family home was very _close_ to a vineyard, and he'd spent his childhood pilfering grapes with his sisters and getting in trouble for it, but they definitely didn't _own_ it. Then again, Grantaire's father had probably purchased and drank so much of their wine over the years that it wasn't too much of a stretch to say he owned at least half of it - he'd probably paid for it three times over.

Still, the made up family vineyard seemed to satisfy Enjolras' parents at least a little.

“I suppose that's something, at least,” His father muttered, “Why did you not ask for our permission to marry our daughter?”

“I was not aware that you had one, Monsieur,” Grantaire said, turning to Enjolras, “You never told me you had a sister.”

“Don't tell me he entertains this delusion of yours,” Madame Enjolras sighed.

“It isn't a delusion,” Enjolras said sharply, “I've been telling you this for years. Don't you think I would have changed my mind by now if I wasn't serious about who I am?”

“And to think, I was almost pleased to hear you'd married a man,” His mother said, completely ignoring him, “We won't put up with this, Marie. Come home, please. You don't need an education – what good will it do you?”

“Whatever good I choose,” Enjolras said, “I like university. I like Paris.”

“It's a filthy city,” His father grunted, “You don't belong here.”

“I belong here more than anywhere else,” Enjolras snapped; Grantaire could feel him starting to shake.

“Just come home, please. And get rid of _him_ ,” His mother said, pointing to Grantaire. It was so openly rude that for a moment Grantaire thought he must have misheard her. 

“No offense, Monsieur,” she added, seeming to catch herself, “But I do not think you are a good fit for this family.”

“That isn't your decision to make,” Enjolras growled, “ _I_ think he is a good fit for this family. You don't even know him!”

“I've seen enough to know,” His mother said icily, “He isn't the sort of man we had in mind for you.”

“Then it's lucky you're not the one married to him.”

“Marie, listen to me---”

“No, mother, _you_ listen to _me!_ ” Enjolras bristled, “How dare you sit in judgement of him? I chose him. He is intelligent and warm and has shown me more understanding and acceptance than either of you ever have!”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras in alarm, worried that the situation was getting out of hand; he'd fake-married Grantaire to get his parents off his case, but it seemed he was getting far too in-character with the whole thing and in danger of it blowing up in his face.

“Hey, uh, honey,” he said awkwardly, “Do you need to step outside for a moment?”

Enjolras nodded, standing so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor, “Yes,” he said. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“Mother, father - I'll be back in a moment,” He said, pulling Grantaire out to the front of the bistro by his hand.

 

* * *

 

They found a bench across the street under some trees on a small strip of park and sat down together, Enjolras visibly trembling. There were tears on his cheeks, but Grantaire doubted he'd thank him for pointing it out. He'd never seen Enjolras cry before – it was a jarring sight. Foolishly Grantaire realised that part of him had always just assumed that nothing ever got to him.

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras said after a while, his voice shaking, “For the things they're saying about you. They're not true.”

“Well, they are a _bit,_ ” Grantaire shrugged, “But it doesn't matter. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this.”

“Well I'm still sorry. It isn't right.”

Grantaire looked down at their hands, still clasped together.

“Don't worry,” he said, “We'll fix this mess. When we go back in I'll just keep my mouth shut so I don't make it any worse. We'll placate them and get out of there as quickly as we can.”

“No,” Enjolras shook his head decisively, “No, I'm...I'm sick of them, Grantaire. I can't keep pandering to them, trying desperately to make them love me for me. I hate them – and don't tell me I don't mean that,”

“I'd never tell you that,” Grantaire said earnestly, “You're not obligated to love them. God knows I don't love mine.”

Enjolras squeezed his hand, “I want to tell them to get out of my life for good.” he said.

“Is that a good idea?”

“All they do is bring me down. They criticise everything I do, all my choices – even you!”

“We're not actually together, remember,” Grantaire said quietly, “If you need to kick me to the curb to keep the peace, you can...”

“No. Absolutely not.” Enjolras said, “It's them who needs to go, not you. If they disapprove of you then they'd disapprove of anyone I was with. If they can't accept you then I can't accept them. You're ten times the person they are combined.”

Grantaire felt a strange flutter in his chest to hear him talk about him so affectionately. It was the nicest thing Enjolras had ever said to him.

“If you're sure.” he said.

“I'm sure. I never want anything to do with them ever again. I don't need their money...” Enjolras hesitated, a look of realisation coming over him, “But you _do_ , don't you? It's why you agreed to this. I'm sorry – we can get divorced, I know I'm backing out on our deal----”

“I never did this for the money, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, “I did this to help you. Besides, we'll still get tax benefits even if your parents kick us into the gutter.”

Enjolras took a deep breath, “You're sure you don't mind if we leave this encounter poorer than when we entered it?”

“Not at all. For richer or poorer and all that, right?”

Enjolras managed a chuckle, “I suppose,” he agreed, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. And hey, getting to see you tell your stuck up parents to fuck off will be more rewarding than all the money in the world.” Grantaire joked; Enjolras smiled.

“Alright. Come on, then,” he said, getting to his feet, their fingers still interlaced.

 

* * *

 

Monsieur and Madame Enjolras were still glaring when they went back inside; they looked like they wanted nothing more than to leave and never come back, and Grantaire was sorely tempted to reassure them that they'd get their wish presently.

Enjolras finally relinquished his hold on Grantaire's hand, storming over to their table with single-minded determination. It was the walk he did at protests, Grantaire noticed, and he wondered if in Enjolras' mind this was another battle to fight.

“Mother, father,” he said when he stopped in front of them, “I'm afraid I will have to decline your offer to come home - and your offer to increase my allowance, for that matter.”

“What are you talking about?” His father said, scowling.

“I'm saying I don't want you in my life anymore.” Enjolras said.

“You can't do that – we're your parents.” His mother said, outraged.

“Not anymore. Not until you can accept me as your son, and Grantaire as your son-in-law.”

“Marie---”

“ _Stop_ calling me that!” Enjolras snapped, so loudly that some of the other diners in the bistro looked over to see what was happening.

“That isn't my name. It hasn't been my name for _years_. You _know_ my name, but you won't use it.” His eyes flashed like blue flames, all righteous fury and wrath. Grantaire felt weak at the knees just watching him.

Enjolras' mother stared at him like he'd just slapped her.

“But---”

“You aren't my parents,” Enjolras said slowly, “I'm disowning you.”

“Marie, this is out of order,” His father hissed, “You're making a scene."

"Oh, god forbid!" Enjolras sneered.

"Sit down and apologize to your mother immediately!”

“No.”

“If you walk out that door now, you can say goodbye to your allowance for good,” he threatened.

“I'm sure I'll find a way to survive.” Enjolras retorted.

“Think about what you're doing,” His mother pleaded, “You'd tear our family apart for this man?” she asked, looking at Grantaire as though he were a stain on her designer purse.

“Not for him,” Enjolras said, “For myself.” took Grantaire's hand again, turning to leave, “Goodbye.”

“When he leaves you and you have no money, don't come crying to us!” His father shouted after them as they left. Enjolras didn't look back.

“Fuck off,” he said over his shoulder. Grantaire beamed with pride. 

 

-

 

Enjolras was elated on the walk back to the Metro; he held onto Grantaire's hand the whole way there, practically skipping at his side. Passers by looked at them as though they thought he was drunk - Grantaire supposed they weren't too far off in their assumption. 

“I can't believe it took me so long to do that!” he cried, “I feel so much better. It's like this huge weight has just disappeared from my shoulders!”

Grantaire smiled, spinning him dramatically on the pavement, “I'm glad,” he said,“What a power move, though – disowning your parents before they could disown you! I wish I'd had the balls to do that with my parents, but they beat me to the mark.”

“Well that's their loss, if you ask me.” Enjolras insisted.

“Thanks.”

“It's the truth,” Enjolras said “Grantaire – thank you so much for being there. Having you with me made it so much easier...”

“Well I spend enough time being a shit to you at the meetings, I figured I owed it to you,” Grantaire joked, feeling his stomach do a somersault as Enjolras kissed each of his cheeks in turn. It was a perfectly normal gesture, he knew, but it was something Enjolras had never done before in all the time they had known each other. Whenever he greeted their friends he was ready with faire la bise for everyone, but never Grantaire.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, grinning.

“You're welcome,” Grantaire said a little breathlessly, “But you don't have to thank me.”

“Well I will anyway. Now, what's the first thing I should do as a free man?” Enjolras asked, looking around as though he were seeing Paris for the first time all over again.

An idea popped instantly into Grantaire's head.

“The Louvre?”

 


	9. Chapter 9

It turned out the Louvre was just what Enjolras needed to forget about the meeting with his parents. Apparently it was impossible to hold onto your worries surrounded by beautiful works of art – and it helped that Grantaire was there, too. Enjolras had still been reeling from the realisation that he had feelings for him when he'd had to throw on some smart clothes and run to catch the metro. He'd barely had time to process his feelings before he was face-to-face with Grantaire, dressed in a well-fitted blazer and looking even more attractive than Enjolras last remembered. And then, to make matters even worse, he'd had to take Grantaire's hand and sit next to him opposite his parents, pretending he really was his husband. Enjolras' heart had felt like it was about to explode the whole time – the experience had probably shaved a good five years off his life.

Grantaire got them into the museum for free with his 'Friend of the Louvre' membership, flashing it like it was a platinum credit card.

“It's an art student perk,” he told Enjolras, “There aren't many art student perks, but this is one of them. Almost makes the lifetime of unshakeable debt worth it.”

“Finally those university fees are paying for themselves,” Enjolras said, blushing violently when Grantaire grabbed his hand and began to lead him in the direction of one of the exhibitions. All the usual thorny awkwardness between the two of them seemed to have disappeared in Grantaire's excitement to show him around.

“Where are we going?” Enjolras asked, allowing himself to be pulled along after him.

“Greek and Roman sculpture,” he said, “Trust me, it's great.”

“Don't you want to see the paintings?” Enjolras said, confused, “You're an artist.”

“I like lots of different types of art, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, “And don't worry, we'll get to that – I'm saving it for last.”

“Why?”

Grantaire stopped, turning to face him with a deadly serious expression, “Because you've never seen 'Liberty Leading The People' – you, the human embodiment of liberty - and I think it should be special when you do.”

Enjolras couldn't lie and say he was rendered anything other than completely smitten by the gesture, and it must have shown, because Grantaire suddenly seemed to notice that they were still holding hands. He cleared his throat, dropping Enjolras' hand as though it were burning hot.

“Sorry,” he said, averting his gaze. Enjolras wanted to reach out and grab him again - to tell him it was fine, more than fine, that he liked it - but his courage failed him.

“It's alright.” he said instead, “Let's go, then – Greek and Roman sculpture.”

Grantaire nodded, “You'll like it, I promise,” he said, “And you should see the detail in the ceilings in those rooms, anyway. It's like an art exhibition in itself.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire was right – it was beautiful. All of it. They walked around for hours, Enjolras listening intently to Grantaire as he explained things and answered his questions; it was like having a personal tour guide. Grantaire in the Louvre was a whole new person - he was in his element here, his whole face lighting up as he talked, brimming with passion that could have rivaled Enjolras'. It was a drastic change from the Grantaire that sat at the back of the Musain nursing a drink and making cynical comments.

As they wandered from room to room Enjolras found himself wondering what other things in Paris he'd been missing out on - he dismissed a lot of them as being tourist traps, but now he was starting to realise that maybe they were so popular with tourists because they actually had something amazing to offer. His friends were often joking that Paris was his mistress - if that was the case, Enjolras was starting to feel like an atrociously inattentive boyfriend.

“Alright,” Grantaire said as they walked through the 'French paintings' wing, “Try to contain your excitement when we get there, okay?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “I'm sure I'll manage to show some restraint.”

 _'Liberty Leading The People'_ was located in a large hall filled with other works, but Enjolras saw it from across the room. He felt a little guilty walking straight past all the other paintings as he maneuvered through the throng of people to get to it, but he doubted Grantaire would take offense – they both knew it was what he was here for.

It was as beautiful as he'd imagined it, dark swathes of oil paint sweeping across the canvas, vibrant shocks of red and blue standing out among the greys and browns. Enjolras had never really had an eye for art, it was true – but even he could see the beauty and mastery of the painting in front of him. The prints and pictures of it books didn't do it justice, he thought. 

Grantaire stopped at his side, the two of them staring at it in comfortable silence for what felt like forever.

“It's wonderful,” Enjolras said when he could find words again.

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed, “It really is.”

“Can you believe someone actually painted this?” Enjolras commented, “I can never get my head around that.”

“And he probably didn't like bits of it,” Grantaire said, “I don't know a single artist who's ever completely happy with their work.”

“Well I think it's beautiful. It makes the Mona Lisa look like shit,” Enjolras said, causing Grantaire to snort with laughter.

“A bit,” he said.

Enjolras stared at the painting, making a mental map of the lines and trying to commit it perfectly to memory.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” he whispered.

“There's no need to thank me,” Grantaire said softly, “You can come to the Louvre whenever you want, remember? Hell, you can borrow my membership card, if you don't mind going by my name for a few hours.”

“Well we're married,” Enjolras pointed out, shrugging, “If I wanted to go by the name 'Grantaire' I would be totally entitled to.”

Grantaire fell very silent at his side.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, giving an uneasy laugh, “But you taking my name would be absurd. We can't have two Grantaires - one is too many, take it from me. What would our friends call you?”

“My first name?” Enjolras supplied, “Or you could take _my_ name, if you'd prefer that.” he said teasingly.

“I am not cut out to go by 'Enjolras', sorry,” Grantaire said, holding up his hands, “I fear I'd sully the good name.”

“You couldn't sully it any more than my parents already have,” Enjolras said, looking at the painting again, “But sure, I'll borrow your membership card. Thanks.”

“I still can't believe you've never been here,” Grantaire said, “I'd have thought when you moved to Paris this would be one of the first things you wanted to see...”

“I've always wanted to see it,” Enjolras conceded, “But I got busy with uni and Les Amis and all the other stuff...”

“Well, now you have. You know,” Grantaire said warily, looking as though he thought Enjolras might bite, “They're having a Delacroix exhibition here next month. Like, one of those temporary ones. Maybe you'd, uh, like to come see that? With me, I mean. Like, as friends, obviously. If you're alright with that.”

Enjolras felt his heart swell in his chest; “Yes,” he said instantly, “Yes, I'd like that.”

It wasn't a date, sure, but if it meant getting to spend more time with this passionate version of Grantaire that he'd just met, Enjolras wouldn't turn it down.

“Okay, good,” Grantaire said, “Because I'd like to see it too and it gets kind of boring coming here alone. After the tenth time security starts to look at you like you're casing the joint for an art heist.”

“Aren't you?” Enjolras joked, “I thought that's what we were doing here...?”

“Oh, yeah – I'm just going to shove 'Liberty Leading The People' under my shirt and walk out,” Grantaire said playfully, “It's a bit big, don't you think?”

“Maybe if we both fit it under our shirts we could get away with it?” Enjolras said, “I'll take one end, you take the other.”

“Yeah, still think we might need like ten other people. As a whole, Les Amis could definitely pull off an art heist.”

“And to think we're all just wasting our time in university,” Enjolras said; Grantaire laughed, and the sound was like music to his ears. How had it taken him to long to realise he felt the way he did? He'd always been acutely aware of Grantaire in every way – every meeting, every movie night, every protest, Enjolras had found himself looking for him in the crowd, worrying about him when he seemed unhappy. It should have been clear to him long before now.

“This was a good idea,” he said quietly.

Grantaire's laughter faded into a warm smile, his dark eyes practically twinkling, “See?” he said, “I do have good ideas sometimes.”

 

* * *

 

 

They must have looked like a real couple, Enjolras realised, because as they left the Louvre and made their way down the street to find somewhere for lunch a man selling roses to tourists approached them and tried to peddle his merch, practically thrusting the bouquet into their faces. 

Enjolras, physically incapable of turning away anyone who might be less fortunate than himself, bought five.

“You know he's probably a swindler, right?” Grantaire asked, visibly amused.

Enjolras clutched them indignantly to his chest, “And if he's not?”

“I guess you did a good deed. He is though, so it's irrelevant.”

“You don't know that. Some of the people doing this really don't have any other options.” Enjolras protested, “Here, take them,” he said, pushing them into Grantaire's hands, “They're for you.”

“Wow, what a charmer,” Grantaire said dryly, admiring the flowers, with their frayed and battered petals and de-thorned stems, “I guess he thought we were actually a couple,” he remarked, voice trailing off. Enjolras fidgeted nervously.

“I guess so.” he said, “Honestly I'm more offended that he thought we were tourists.”

The light returned to Grantaire's eyes in an instant, “Yeah,” he said, “You're the most Parisian looking person I've ever met, and you weren't even born here.”

Enjolras shoved him slightly, trying to hide the smile on his face, “Don't make fun of me.” he warned.

“Me? Would I ever?"

"Don't be a smartass."

"But I do it so well! Ah, here we are,” Grantaire announced, pointing across the street to a small cafe, “Whenever I go to the Louvre I always end up here afterwards.”

 

* * *

 

 

They found a table by the window and ordered lunch, Grantaire refusing to accept Enjolras' money when he tried to pay for his own.

“You just got cut off by your parents,” He reminded him, “Let me get this for you, okay?”

“You've been cut off too.” Enjolras argued.

“Yeah, but that was a long time coming. I've had a lot of practice at being poor,” Grantaire said, thanking the waiter as he brought over their coffee, “You can get the next one.”

“The next one?” Enjolras asked, feeling his heart flutter.

“I mean, if there is a next one,” Grantaire amended, apparently not wanting Enjolras to get the wrong idea, “Like, maybe when we go to see the Delacroix exhibition. You can get us lunch then, okay?”

Enjolras nodded, “I'll settle for that,” he agreed, dropping a sugar cube into his coffee, “Today went better than expected, even if I did cut ties with my family...”

“You have Les Amis,” Grantaire said quietly, “They're the best family a guy could ask for." 

“They are.” Enjolras managed a small smile, “I know you told me to stop thanking you, but really – thank you. Today would have been much harder for me without you.”

“Yeah, well, don't worry about it,” Grantaire said, stirring his coffee and not meeting his gaze, “We don't always get along great but I know what it's like to have shitty parents. We're united on that front, I guess.”

“We got along okay today,” Enjolras said, “Didn't we? I had fun.”

“Yeah...” Grantaire smiled to himself, “So did I. I normally have to go to the Louvre alone, and like I said, it's nice, but it gets a bit lonely. Jehan used to come with me, but they're banned for life now.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, “How did they get _banned_ from the _Louvre_?”

“It's a long, traumatising story,” Grantaire snickered, “One word – or name, rather; 'Pygmalion',”

“Wait, like the guy who---? Oh,” Enjolras blinked once, and then laughed, “Wow, okay...”

“Yeah. Jehan was pretty forward with a few of the statues...” Grantaire waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “Apparently security guards do not care for that shit, so now they can never come back.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Our friends are trainwrecks,” Grantaire said, “No wonder I fit in so well.”

Enjolras grinned, sipping his coffee, “Well, you can count on me to come back with you. And I won't even try to get intimate with any works of art."

“Thanks. So, uh – what are you going to do now?”

“About what?”

“Money,” Grantaire said, “What with you washing your hands of your parents and all that...”

“I don't know,” Enjolras confessed, “I've never considered it.” he said, feeling a knot form in his stomach. It felt like a personal failing to admit that he'd never had to contemplate what he'd do if his financial situation changed. He'd been hoping against hope for years that his parents would come around and continue to mindlessly fund his battle for social justice. Now he was lost at sea without a life-raft.

“I guess I'll have to get a job,” he said.

Grantaire gave him a questioning look, “Do you have any experience?”

“No,” Enjolras said, shrinking in his seat a little, “None.”

“Well, I know a lot of people, I'll ask around,” Grantaire offered, “See if anyone has a job going that won't mind training you up...”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, “You've done so much for me already...” he reached across the table almost unconsciously to touch his hand, heart feeling like it was about to burst. They were both still wearing their wedding rings, he realised. He felt Grantaire freeze at the touch, and withdrew, their fingertips brushing as he did.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It's fine,” Grantaire said, but his voice cracked in a manner that suggested it was very much Not Fine, and Enjolras cursed himself for it – the last thing he wanted was to make Grantaire uncomfortable.

“I'm not looking forward to going home,” He said, changing the topic, “Combeferre is going to be worried when I tell him what happened with my parents...”

“Are you going to be able to afford your rent?” Grantaire said, brows knitting together in concern.

“Just about. I have some savings, so I guess with Combeferre's half of the rent we can creep by until I get a job...” Enjolras said, warming his hands on his mug, “In theory, anyway,” he added.

“That's something, at least,” Grantaire said, “The rent prices in Paris are ridiculous. I'd be living somewhere else myself if I could afford it. Don't get me wrong, I love Joly, Bossuet and Chetta to bits, they're awesome, but it's kind of rough when your three roommates are all in a relationship and you're kind of hanging on. I didn't even know being a 'fourth wheel' was a thing.”

Enjolras grinned, “I know how you feel – sort of. Courfeyrac practically lives with us now. There's no escaping it. I know they're not trying to exclude me on purpose, but it's still awkward...”

Grantaire raised his mug as though in a toast, “To feeling uncomfortable,” he joked.

Enjolras lifted his mug to his, amused, “And to telling my parents to fuck off.”

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras felt like he was walking on a cloud by the time he got home. He let himself into the apartment, shrugging off his coat and kicking off his shoes. There was a single rose petal still attached to his sweater, and he picked it off carefully as he walked through to the living room, sure that he was smiling like a lovestruck teenager.

“Enjolras?”

He startled at the sound of his name, turning to see Combeferre and Courfeyrac sitting together on the sofa. The television was off and there was a notepad on the coffee table in front of them, but it was their serious expressions that made Enjolras feel as though he had just walked in on something deeply personal.

“Hey,” he said, stuffing the rose petal into his pocket, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said, extending one hand to him, “Come sit down,” he urged, exchanging a nervous look with Combeferre, “There's something we need to talk to you about.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

“So how _was_ your Louvre date?”

Grantaire groaned, resting his head on the cafe table, “It wasn't a date,” he said, “How many times do I have to tell you that before you get it into your heads?”

“You went with to the Louvre with Enjolras,” Joly said, as if he thought Grantaire had somehow forgotten. As if. Grantaire would be preserving that particular day in his memory until he was old and grey.

“So?”

“ _Enjolras,_ ” Joly repeated, as though for emphasis, “You know - the notoriously too-busy-for-art philistine...?”

“He wanted to see 'Liberty Leading The People' – that's hardly a surprise,” Grantaire said, shrugging it off.

“But you spent the whole day with him!”

“And?”

“And he bought you _roses_ ,”

Grantaire snorted, taking a swig of his beer, “Only because of his bleeding-heart sensibilities,” he said, “He thought he was doing a charitable deed, that's all. He just gave them to me because he didn't want them.”

Grantaire wasn't about to confess that he'd kept the aforementioned roses, pressing them between the pages of a book to keep forever; they all knew about his pathetic crush, sure, but that just _reeked_ of desperation.

“Then you went to a cafe together and you _bought him lunch_ ,” Bossuet chipped in, “That sounds a _lot_ like a date to me...”

“Yeah,” Joly said, “A pretty romantic one, too; no one's ever bought _me_ roses!”

“Well you've never asked,” Bossuet frowned, “And don't you have really bad hay-fever, anyway?”

“Yeah, and a severe bee sting allergy?” Grantaire said, raising one eyebrow. 

“So?”

“So face it, Joly – flowers were never really meant for you.”

“Okay, whatever,” Joly waved it off, “Unimportant. My point is you _totally_ went on a date with the Fearless Leader.”

“I didn't.” Grantaire said, feeling his face grow hot.

“You're blushing,” Bossuet said, pointing smugly.

“Like a schoolgirl.” Joly seconded, grinning, “Did you get to first base...?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, “Absolutely _not_ . And it's only a date if both parties agree it's a date, and we never even discussed it – not that he'd go on a date with me even if we _had."_

“You keep telling yourself that, R,” Joly teased, “But if you ask me...”

“Well I'm _not_ asking you, am I?” Grantaire said darkly, picking the label off his beer bottle, “So just let it go already. I'm consider murdering both of you right about now, for the record.”

“Ah, but if you killed us both who would help you move the bodies?” Bossuet said, apparently enjoying Grantaire's suffering immensely.

“Oh don't worry, I'm _sure_ Enjolras would be on hand to help...” Joly snickered.

Grantaire lay his head back down on the table with an exaggerated sigh; “Traitors. Both of you." 

“Ah come on, R – you've got to admit it seems a bit like a date,” Bossuet said, nudging him in the ribs.

“I guess,” Grantaire conceded, “But is wasn't. Just because it _looks_ like a date doesn't make it a date.”

“We're just saying you may be in with a shot,” Joly insisted, “Try to be optimistic!”

Grantaire scowled; he wasn't very good at that.

“You do remember who you're talking to, right?”

“At least _think_ about asking him out again,” Bossuet urged, exchanging a look with Joly, “I bet he'd say yes...”

“We're going to see a Delacroix exhibition together there next month,” Grantaire reported, feeling the colour rise to his cheeks again.

“Oh wow,” Bossuet let out a low whistle, "Get it, R." 

“Just shut up.”

“Alright,” Joly said, “Speak of the devil - your husband just got here,” he added just as Enjolras came storming into the Musain like a man on a mission.

Grantaire lifted his head again to look, ignoring the hushed giggles he received for doing so. Enjolras didn't look happy.

He had a cold, stoic air about him, which in itself wasn't unusual, but there was something stormy in his expression that made Grantaire sure that something had upset him.

He contemplated asking if he was okay – that was what a good husband should do, right? Even a fake one? - But before he could muster the courage Enjolras had swept past their table without even affording him a second glance.

Grantaire felt his heart sink like a stone; he hadn't expected them to become best buddies overnight, sure, but – and maybe he was getting a bit ahead of himself here - he'd hoped that their trip to the Louvre might have sparked some sort of friendship between them. Apparently not. He wilted in his seat, taking a miserable swig of his beer.

“What's got him so moody?” Joly whispered.

“I don't know,” Bossuet said, “R, I thought you said your date with him went okay?”

“It wasn't a date!” Grantaire hissed, praying that Enjolras wouldn't overhear them, “And it was _fine_. I don't think this is anything to do with me.”

“For once.” Bossuet said.

“Maybe he's regretting what happened with his parents?” Joly suggested.

“I doubt it,” Grantaire said, watching Enjolras take his place at the front of the room and open up his laptop, “He seemed glad to be rid of them yesterday.”

"Well something's wrong," Bossuet commented.

"Fantastic detective work there, Boss," Joly said, as Combeferre called the meeting to order.

Grantaire found it impossible to focus on what was being said. It was true that he didn't always give the meetings his full attention – nobody would have been surprised to learn that – but Enjolras? Enjolras always had his full attention. Whenever he was speaking, Grantaire was listening, hoping that in the silence between Enjolras' points he could interject and cajole him into a debate. It was pitiful really, but there were days when their barbed back-and-forths during meetings were the only thing that kept him going.

Tonight though, Grantaire's mind was elsewhere, scouring his memory frantically for anything that he might have done wrong the day before. Had he said something insensitive without realising it? Or were Joly and Bossuet onto something? Maybe he _was_ upset about the situation with his parents after all; sure, he'd seemed happy enough the day before, but maybe once he'd returned home the daunting reality of life without their support had caught up with him.

Besides, they _were_ his parents – even as terrible as they were it was possible some small part of Enjolras still craved their approval. Grantaire would have been a filthy liar if he said he'd never felt that way about his own family; for the longest time he'd done everything in his power to make his father like him, all of it in vain. It had taken him years to realise his father's approval wasn't worth a cent - maybe Enjolras wasn't quite there yet, for all his bravado and surety the day before.

 

* * *

 

 

When the meeting finally drew to a close Grantaire breathed a silent sigh of relief, glad that he would have an excuse to get away. Whatever was bothering Enjolras, Grantaire told himself it wasn't his business. And it wasn't - their marriage wasn't real, so what was it to him if Enjolras was unhappy for some reason? There was nothing he could do about it, he told himself. Hell, he couldn't even solve his own problems.

“Drinks at the Corinth?” He suggested to Joly and Bossuet as they got ready to leave.

“Definitely,” Bossuet said, pulling on his coat, “That went on forever.”

“You're telling me,” Joly scoffed, “I thought I was going to grow old listening to Feuilly's presentation – no offense,” he added, noticing that Feuilly was within earshot.

“None taken,” Feuilly said, winding his scarf around his neck.

“Alright, come on then,” Grantaire decided, “Before I die of thirst---”

“Grantaire?”

He froze at the sound of Enjolras' voice, feeling like his feet had just turned to stone.

“Can we speak privately for a moment?”

“Ooooh, R - you're in the doghouse now for sure!” Bahorel joked, “Someone's sleeping on the couch!”

“Yeah, the old ball and chain has it in for you...” Eponine sneered, sticking a cigarette between her teeth. 

Grantaire shot them both a murderous look, certain that their friends were never going to get tired of the married couple jokes. He and Enjolras had inadvertently set them up with a lifetime supply of quality taunts.

“Sure,” he said to Enjolras, making a valiant attempt to ignore the others, “It's nothing bad, is it?”

Enjolras didn't respond, instead busying himself with tidying up the flyers that were spread out on the table in front of him. Grantaire felt sick, dropping back down into his seat like a child waiting to be scolded by his teacher. This couldn't be good.

“We'll wait for you,” Joly said, ruffling Grantaire's curls as he passed him,“If you're not back after twenty-four hours we'll assume he's killed you.”

“Yeah, we'll send a search party,” Bossuet promised, “And write you a nice eulogy if it comes to that.”

“Gee, thanks,” Grantaire said, biting the words out, “You're the best friends a guy could ask for.”

“Aren't we just?” Joly said cheerfully, “Bye, R!”

“Good luck,” Musichetta called over her shoulder on her way out.

The rest of their friends began to file out, and soon the two of them were alone in the cafe aside from the few members of staff cleaning up downstairs.

“So,” Grantaire started, heart hammering in his chest as Enjolras came and sat down in the empty seat next to him, “What did you want to talk about?”

Enjolras produced a notepad from seemingly nowhere, placing it down on the table in front of him.

“I have a dilemma,” he said gravely.

“Another one?” Grantaire said, frowning, “You're not having a good time of it lately, are you?”

“No, I'm not,” Enjolras agreed, “Look, I'll cut right to the chase – will you move in with me?”

For the second time in the last few weeks Grantaire felt as though he'd been struck across the back of the head with something heavy.

“Uh...what?”

“I need you to move in with me,” Enjolras repeated, “If you want to, anyway – there's no pressure, obviously.”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. It's an emergency.”

Grantaire stared at him, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water.

“What happened to Combeferre?” He spluttered, “Are you planning on murdering him? I know his rants about the importance of bees can be long-winded, but he's not _that_ bad of a guy.”

The words had an immediate effect on Enjolras; he seemed to grow smaller, looking down and physically deflating.

“He's moving in with Courfeyrac.” he announced, and from the tone of his voice it was clear that this new development bothered him greatly.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, “I'm sorry...”

“I'm happy for them,” Enjolras added hurriedly, as though trying to convince them both at the same time, “They're good together, and of course they want to live together – they're getting married. But it means I won't be able to afford to stay in my apartment – not unless I get a roommate.”

“Combeferre is really leaving you high and dry like that?” Grantaire asked, confused, “That doesn't sound like him...”

“He thought I was getting an increased allowance,” Enjolras reminded him, “I should have been able to afford the place by myself on that. His face when I told him what happened...” he shook his head, “He feels guilty, and I feel guilty too for putting him in that situation. He's said he'd stay, but he's already signed a lease on a place with Courf, and I couldn't ask him to do that anyway. I want them to live together.”

“Are you sure about that?” Grantaire ventured, painfully aware that he was straying into dangerous territory. It wasn't his right to be asking these sorts of questions.

“Of course,” Enjolras said indignantly, “What makes you think I'm not?”

“Well it's just...you seem kind of...angry?”

Enjolras recoiled at the accusation, looking for a split second like he was about to argue. Grantaire braced himself, but to his surprise Enjolras simply sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair with a look of resignation.

“I am,” He admitted, “Not at Combeferre, though - not at all. At _myself_ , for being naïve and foolish enough to ever think I was enough of a functional adult to handle my own affairs without my parents paying my way...”

“Don't think like that,” Grantaire said.

“It's true though – everyone's thinking it and you know it.” Enjolras muttered, toying with a stray curl of hair in a way that shouldn't have been nearly as endearing as it was, “I've been wealthy and privileged my whole life. I've been _sheltered_ my whole life. I don't know the first thing about living alone; I don't even know how to cook. It's shameful.”

“I wouldn't say it's shameful, Enjolras,” Grantaire said quietly, “It's not your fault nobody taught you those things. Nobody just knows how to cook or take care of their bills or do all that awful, soul-crushing adult stuff. You want to learn, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then that's something, at least.”

He saw the ghost of a smile tug at the corners of Enjolras' mouth, and it was the best feeling in the world to know that he had caused it. He wanted to be brave enough to reach over and take his hand - to offer him some kind of real, tangible, physical comfort - but Grantaire had never claimed to be a brave man, and so instead he kept his hands where they were, anchored firmly around his beer bottle.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, “It feels like that's all I've been doing lately – thanking you."

"What a strange turn of events," Grantaire said playfully, "Usually you're telling me to shut up."

"Well usually you're giving me good reason to."

"True," Grantaire said fondly.

"I wish there was a way I could show my gratitude – that I could buy you some new paintbrushes or something," Enjolras sighed, "But it'll be a miracle if I can afford to eat for the next few weeks, so that's probably off the table for now...”

“You don't need to do anything, Enjolras,” Grantaire assured him, “I'm happy to help. It's what friends do, right?”

“Right.” Enjolras' smile was full now, his blue eyes sparkling, “But I mean it - if there's ever anything I can do for you...”

“I'll think on it.”

“Good.”

“So, uh...about this apartment situation,” Grantaire began, taking a thoughtful sip of his beer to buy himself time, “You're really serious about it, then?”

“Of course.”

“But why are you asking _me_?"

"Well, you know, you were saying about how crowded it is at your place..." Enjolras said.

"I guess, but am I really your first choice for this?" Grantaire still couldn't quite comprehend it, "Can't you put an add somewhere or something?”

“I could,” Enjolras said thoughtfully, looking suddenly rather sheepish, “You're right – I'm sorry. Good point. Forget I asked---”

“No, like – no, I think I'd like to,” Grantaire said quickly, not wanting him to rescind the offer before he could even think about it, “I mean, like you said - we were just talking about how crowded it is at my place, right? And your apartment is nice – well, from what I've heard. I've never been there, but, you know, no time like the present. I'd like to see it, at least.”

God, he was _never_ going to hear the end of this from Joly and Bossuet if he said yes.

This was a bad idea. He was already in the running to win 'worst decision of the year' for marrying him, but moving in with him? Living together, sharing an intimately small apartment? It was like he was _trying_ to torture himself. Maybe Joly and Bossuet were right – he must have been a masochist after all. Either that or all his years of fatalistic humour were coming back to bite him in the ass.

But then Enjolras beamed, and immediately all of Grantaire's doubts seemed incredibly unimportant.

“Brilliant,” Enjolras said, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, “We can go now, if you want?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, nodding helplessly, “Let's go.”

 

* * *

 

“So?” Enjolras said, hovering in the doorway, “Do you like it?”

Of course he did. The apartment was lovely. It was on the top floor of the building, with two decent double bedrooms and an airy open-plan kitchen-living room. There wasn't much of a view – it was surrounded by rooftops on all sides – but there were skylights letting in floods of light, and a small balcony just off the living room.

"It's great. Way nicer than my current place...” he said, trailing off.

He wasn't lying; it really _was_ a beautiful apartment.

But it was also Enjolras' apartment - and that was where Grantaire's nerve up and left him.

“You really think so?” Enjolras asked, shooting him a dubious look, “You don't exactly sound sure about that...”

“No, really. The place is awesome, Enjolras. It's just...”

“It's just what?”

Grantaire squirmed uncomfortably where he stood, uncertain how to proceed.

“It's just...are you sure it's a good idea for _us_ to live together?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras said, and it made Grantaire's heart twist in his chest to hear the hurt in his voice, “Am I really that bad?”

“No,” Grantaire said instantly, “God, no, that's not it – I just mean...” he searched desperately for the right words. He didn't want Enjolras to think he didn't like him – that was the furthest thing from the truth.

“Well, we don't exactly have a great track record of getting along, do we? How many times have we ended up having a huge fight during a meeting?”

“But this isn't a meeting. This is my apartment.” Enjolras pointed out, “We won't fight here. We'll make a promise to leave all our debates at the Musain,” he said, and god, he sounded so painfully earnest that Grantaire could almost let himself believe it.

“You know you can't promise that,” he said, “Think about it, Enjolras – do you _really_ think we'd be able to stick to that rule?”

“Well we can at least try.” he said diplomatically.

“I guess...” Grantaire said, glancing around at the apartment again. It really was stunning, and in a much nicer part of the city than his current place. It would be a massive upgrade, and going from three roommates to just one would be a welcome change, even if that roommate was Enjolras.

And Enjolras needed this too, he reminded himself – hell, if he didn't get a new roommate soon he'd be forced to leave, and then where would he go? Grantaire knew their friends would never see him on the streets, but still – he deserved an actual apartment, not an indefinite stay on someone's sofa.

“Okay,” he said finally, certain that he'd regret it later, “I'll move in.”

Enjolras' eyes practically lit up, “Really?”

“Really.”

“That's great. The rent will be a little more than you're paying right now...” he warned.

“Yeah, but I'll have a lot more space,” Grantaire shrugged, “It's worth a bit more money. I'm sure I can stretch to that.”

“Fantastic. We'll start the process of getting you put on the lease tomorrow,” Enjolras said, “You can go look around properly, if you want – go see your room. Explore. Make yourself at home,” he prompted, so enthusiastically that Grantaire felt his heart soar and all his fears subside.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, he thought. Maybe he could handle it – after all, he'd had worse roommates in the past, like the guy who'd flooded the place on purpose to get an extension on an overdue project, and the guy who was always having obnoxiously loud sex with his girlfriend.

Maybe they'd even get along – they could have a truce in this space, if they both tried very hard. Maybe...

Grantaire stopped at the threshold of what would soon be his bedroom, his heart nearly stopping with him; it was spacious, filled with boxes of Combeferre's possessions – and right next to Enjolras', he realised abruptly. There would only be a thin wall separating the two of them.

He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly a whole lot less sure about the idea.

Yes, he decided; Joly and Bossuet were definitely right. He had it in for himself for sure.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Enjolras muttered another string of curses under his breath, prodding at the now unrecognizable contents of his frying pan with a spatula. How was cooking bacon proving so difficult? It was simple enough in theory; put the oil in the pan, add the bacon, and fry it – so how had Enjolras ended up with this misshapen black lump? He sighed, tossing the spatula to one side and making a start on the coffee instead. That was one thing he knew he wouldn't screw up.

It had been two weeks since Grantaire had agreed to move in, and the night before Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel and Eponine had come over in force to help him move box after box of his things into the apartment. He'd never realised Grantaire had quite so much stuff - how he had crammed it all into his tiny bedroom at his old apartment was beyond a mystery to him. 'It's mostly art stuff,' Grantaire had said by way of explanation; 'a necessary evil'.

They hadn't finished moving his stuff until well past midnight, and by that time everyone was exhausted and nobody was in the mood to socialise. Grantaire had trudged straight off to bed with barely a 'goodnight', apparently too tired to deal with Enjolras until the morning. There hadn't been any time to talk – not that he was obligated to talk to him, of course. Especially not late at night, after hauling boxes and furniture up four flights of stairs all day.

Just because they were roommates now didn't mean they would suddenly be closer than before or anything, Enjolras reminded himself. Of course not. It was just, well, Enjolras would have liked it far more than he wanted to admit. Then again, it was probably for the best if they didn't get closer - this new living situation was a recipe for sexual frustration and heartache. He'd only just come to terms with his feelings for Grantaire and then because he hated himself he'd gone out of his way to make his life more difficult and asked him to take Combeferre's place on the lease.

'Are you _trying_ to play yourself?' Courfeyrac had asked when he'd told him, aghast.

'What do you mean?'

'Enj, you're crazy thirsty for him and now you're going to be living under the same roof? You're going to end up fucking him, I just know it.'

Enjolras had turned scarlet all over and told him to shut up and let it drop, but now he couldn't get Courfeyrac's words out of his head. Okay, so Grantaire probably wasn't interested in any kind of actual relationship with him – but he _had_ been single for a long time, and Enjolras had only _ever_ been single, and both of them had urges, after all...

It was far too easy to envision, and definitely, definitely not what Enjolras should have been thinking about so early in the morning.

He'd only turned his back for a few minutes when the smoke alarm suddenly blared into life, so loud that Enjolras thought it might wake up half of Paris.

“Fuck,” he hissed, grabbing the nearest dish towel and waving it frantically in the air to try and clear the smoke.

“Shit. _Fuck._ ”

“What the hell is going on?”

He jumped at the sound of Grantaire's voice, spinning to face him.

This probably wasn't how Grantaire had wanted to spend his first morning in his new apartment – walking into the kitchen at 9:00AM to the sound of the smoke alarm and Enjolras waving a towel around like he was trying to flag down a small aircraft.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

For a moment Enjolras struggled to respond, knocked nearly breathless by the sight of him; he was wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, his dark curls an artfully dishevelled mess and his voice husky in that sultry, just-woke-up kind of way. It was painfully attractive, and Enjolras was tremendously, hopelessly gay.

“I'm fine,” he squeaked at last, clearing his throat when he heard the way his voice fluctuated. Grantaire gave him an odd look.

“It's the T,” Enjolras lied, forcing a smile, “You know, my voice changing and all that...”

“Okay...” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, reaching over to take another towel from the sink, “Here, let me help,” he offered.

The two of them combined managed to clear the room, and finally the smoke alarm fell silent.

“Thank god,” Enjolras sighed, his ears still ringing. It felt like it had been going off for an eternity.

“What happened?” Grantaire said, glancing at the charred remains of the bacon in the pan, "Were you trying to cremate someone?" 

“I was _trying_ to make us both breakfast,” Enjolras admitted, following his gaze, “But I think I made a crucial mistake somewhere.”

“Uh, yeah, I think so too,” Grantaire agreed, going over to more thoroughly inspect the mess he'd made, “How exactly did you go _this_ wrong?”

“I'm not sure,” Enjolras said, “I got distracted for a few minutes...” _fantasizing about you_ , “And I guess in that time it graduated from 'extra crispy' to...”

“To literally on fire?”

“That would be accurate, yes."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, moving the pan from the stove and over to the sink to cool, “Uh, good effort, though,” he said generously, and Enjolras would have laughed if he hadn't been so utterly mortified.

“It's okay, you can say it,” he said, “It was a disaster.”

“Only a bit.”

“I've never cooked bacon before,” Enjolras confessed, “I never learned how. We had a cook when I was growing up...”

“You had a---?! Fucking hell,” Grantaire said, looking somewhat overwhelmed, “Sometimes I forget just how loaded your family is. And that was just the main house, right? I assume you had a whole litany of cooks at the summer residence, too...”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose, indignant, “I thought you weren't going to tease me about my family?”

“I never promised that,” Grantaire said, running the cold water from the tap into the pan and leaning back as steam hissed off the hot metal, “I promised to leave our debates at the Musain, not to never tease you again. I wouldn't have _any_ fun in life if I promised _that._ "

“Well it doesn't matter how rich they are any more, does it?” Enjolras said sharply, “They're out of my life for good.”

“I know, I'm sorry,” Grantaire's voice softened, a guilty look coming over him that made Enjolras regret the harshness of his tone.

“I was just playing around. It was in poor taste, you're right,” he said, “But seriously though, you've never cooked bacon before?”

“No,”

“Haven't you ever watched Combeferre do it?”

“He's a vegetarian.”

“Ah,” Grantaire nodded, “I forgot. Of course. Well, hey, it's no big deal, right? Do you have more?”

“We do,” Enjolras told him, and the use of the word 'we' seemed to catch Grantaire off guard. He paused for a moment, a bizarre look on his face.

“Oh. Right. We – I live here now,” He said, setting down the pan, “Well, get it out of the fridge then. Do we have another frying pan – uh, one that isn't currently scalding hot?”

“Yes. Why?”

“We're going to try again,” Grantaire informed him, “And I'll show you how it's done. Get the eggs, too – I make a mean omelette.”

“I don't want you to do everything,” Enjolras argued, shame burning red in his cheeks.

“Well don't worry, I won't,” Grantaire said, offering an easy, sleepy smile that made Enjolras' heart leap out of rhythm; “I'm going to teach you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So, uh, why _did_ you want to make me breakfast, anyway?” Grantaire asked once they were sat down eating. With Grantaire's supervision and gentle guidance Enjolras' second attempt at breakfast had been far more successful.

It felt surreal to be sitting across from each other at the small kitchen table, talking comfortably over coffee like it was the norm. For a moment Enjolras was almost able to fool himself into thinking it was a real relationship.

“I wanted to thank you for everything you've done for me recently,” He explained sheepishly, “And, you know, welcome you to the apartment properly. I just thought it would be a nice gesture...”

“I appreciate that,” Grantaire said, giving a lop-sided smile, “But not burning us both alive is also a nice gesture...”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose, pretending to reach across the table to stab his hand with his fork, “Leave me alone, I'm learning,” he said.

Grantaire laughed, “Okay, sorry,” he said, pulling his hands back, “I really am grateful for the effort, though.”

“You should be. I don't make a habit of cooking for others.”

“You shouldn't even make a habit of cooking for yourself after what I saw,” Grantaire remarked.

“Will you stop?”

“Sorry.”

Enjolras let out a disparaging sound, taking a bite of omelette; Grantaire hadn't been exaggerating when he'd boasted of his culinary prowess. It wasn't surprising - for all the time he spent putting himself down, Grantaire had always been exceptionally talented at an unreasonable number of pursuits. Enjolras could hold the attention of a crowd, sure, but that was where his abilities began and ended. Grantaire could paint and dance and sing and box and fence and play the piano and---and cook, too, apparently. Enjolras found himself wondering what other incredible talents Grantaire had that he didn't know about; a few very inappropriate thoughts entered his mind, and he blushed, looking down at his plate.

It was probably best to avoid that type of thinking; it had caused him to burn the bacon in the first place.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked instead, desperate to distract himself from his apparently very creative imagination.

“Oh yeah,” Grantaire nodded, “This is the nicest part of the city I've ever lived in – it was almost weird _not_ waking up at 2:00AM because of a fight outside.”

“Is that really what your old apartment was like?”

“Yeah. I mean, it wasn't awful or anything, don't get me wrong, but we weren't exactly paying for the nice neighbourhood, you know?” Grantaire shrugged, “It's much nicer here. Even the view is nicer. Did you know you can get onto the roof from my window?”

Enjolras blinked, surprised, “No...” he said, “Wait, does this mean you were out on the _roof_ last night?”

“Only to have a cigarette. It's nice up there.” Grantaire said defensively, “Did you really not know?”

“No. Combeferre doesn't exactly make a habit of scaling rooftops at night,” Enjolras told him, arching one eyebrow.

Grantaire scoffed, “Well then Combeferre is seriously missing out on one of the many fine wonders of Paris,” he said decidedly, punctuating his statement by shoving a large mouthful of omelette into his mouth.

Enjolras didn't really know what to say to that.

“Is it safe?” He inquired eventually.

“Pretty safe – it's mostly flat. There's a fire escape ladder out there too, so it's fine, I'm sure.” Grantaire said, “I'll show you sometime, if you're not too scared...”

“I'm not scared,” Enjolras said, puffing up his chest, “It's just not something I'd usually do...”

“Well the view is _definitely_ worth dying for,” Grantaire winked, and Enjolras felt his stomach do a backflip.

“I'll be the judge of that,” Enjolras said. Grantaire's dark, captivating eyes sparkled with amusement for a moment, but then the light faded from them, and his face was suddenly serious.

“Have you, uh, heard anything from your parents...?”

“Since our meeting?” Enjolras said, glancing down, “Sort of. They sent me a letter.”

“A _letter_?” Grantaire echoed, “What is this, the 1800's? Did they wax seal it, too?”

“It was on embossed paper,” Enjolras said, taking some small comfort from the fact it made Grantaire chuckle.

“And?” he asked.

“And it's not worth reading, trust me,” Enjolras murmured, pushing the bacon around on his plate, “It's filled with transphobic ranting and stuff about how ungrateful I am. They mention you a few times, too.”

“Uh, let me guess – not exactly a shining review?”

“We'll go with that,” Enjolras said, “I believe the exact words my mother used were 'a scruffy, no-good art student going nowhere with his life'...”

“Oh now that's just mean,” Grantaire said, taking a swig of coffee, “I'm going somewhere! I mean, I don't know where, exactly, and sure, it's very possibly under a train, but I'm not going _nowhere_...”

Enjolras gave a wry smile, “Told you. Not worth reading. It was mostly just them telling me that they 'don't have a daughter any more' – if only they'd had that attitude years ago, we could have mended our relationship.”

Grantaire gave a little hum of amusement, “Well it's their loss. When you're, like, president or something they'll come crawling back.”

“President?” Enjolras laughed, “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Sorry, sorry, I forgot – hopefully society as we know it will have crumbled by the then, right? Anarchy or socialism or something, yeah...?”

“Something like that.” Enjolras agreed playfully. They locked eyes for a moment, and fleetingly Enjolras saw a flicker of something unidentifiable cross Grantaire's face. Then he set down his coffee mug and cleared his throat.

“Anyway, fuck your parents,” he said bluntly, “You're worth a hundred of them.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said earnestly, “And I'm glad you slept well. Do you want help unpacking any of your things...?” he offered, looking around the kitchen at the stacks of boxes surrounding them.

“That might be nice,” Grantaire nodded, picking up his mug again, “I wouldn't want to put my things somewhere you don't want them. I imagine you're agonizingly anal about where your plates and stuff go, right?”

“Uh, no, actually, not really. That was more Combeferre. I'm a bit more disorganized.” Enjolras said, standing to clear the table, “You should see the state of my bedroom,”

This statement apparently had an ill effect on Grantaire, because at that exact moment he choked abruptly on his coffee.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras said, alarmed.

Grantaire held one hand up to signal that he was alright, pounding on his chest with one fist, “Yeah,” he coughed, “I'm fine.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing!” Grantaire said quickly, “Just, uh, surprised – I thought you'd be super neat, that's all."

“I keep my notes neat,” Enjolras said, “But not much else.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, should we get started?” Enjolras suggested, starting to tear open the nearest box.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Grantaire got to his feet, draining the rest of his coffee in one go, “Can I put some music on? It helps keep the bad thoughts at bay, you know? I can't clean or paint or anything without a soundtrack.”

Enjolras smiled, “Sure – your records are in that box over there, I think. Why _do_ you have so many moody goth bands, by the way? Is there something you've neglected to tell us?”

Grantaire huffed indignantly, “I was young once, I'll have you know.”

“Of course - because you're practically ancient now.”

“Hey, I'm like two years older than you so hush up,” Grantaire said, retrieving the box from the other side of the room and hoisting it up onto the kitchen table, “I used to be a bit angsty.”

“ _Used to be_?”

“Oh shut up - you know, lots of black, smokey eyeliner," Grantaire looked as though it caused him physical pain to recount his youth, "Goth wasn't a good look on me, trust me.”

Enjolras felt himself grin involuntarily at the mental image his words conjured up, “No photos?”

“Absolutely not, christ,” Grantaire shuddered, opening the box, “I don't hate myself _that_ much..."

“It's okay,” Enjolras said, leaning in to admire some of the cover art on the records, “No judgement here. I went through a really bad punk phase when I was 17.”

“You---what?” Grantaire's mouth dropped open.

"You heard me."

“Oh my god,” he said, looking as though it was the best bit of news he'd heard all year.

“That is _beautiful._ ” he said, apparently absolutely thrilled,  “Oh, I'm picturing it so vividly,” he beamed, gesturing with a flourish to Enjolras' entire being, “That is glorious. I should have guessed you had a dark past. You're too golden and angelic for it to be true. Of _course_ you were a punk.”

Enjolras turned up his nose, pretending to be insulted, “Just go set up the record player, okay? And put on 'The Smiths' if we're going to do this.”

Grantaire did as he was told.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Living with Enjolras turned out to be far more tolerable than Grantaire had expected - and, well, okay, that sounded mean. But the Enjolras he knew from the meetings was cold and precise, and Grantaire had understandably expected that demeanour to follow him home.

He'd imagined living with Enjolras would be like walking on eggshells, worried to put anything out of place or break some strict apartment rule he'd made up. As it transpired, though, Out-Of-Meetings-Enjolras was a human disaster.

He sang in the shower – loudly and badly – and couldn't cook to save his life. He spent most of his nights camped out on the sofa, typing furiously at his laptop until 4:00AM with a wall of used plates, bowls and mugs growing around him. Sometimes he wouldn't even make it to bed at all, and Grantaire would pad tiredly into the living room the next morning to find him passed out on the sofa among a collection of half-eaten noodles, sandwich crusts and cold, long-forgotten cups of coffee.

It was strangely humbling, in a way – Grantaire had spent so long thinking of Enjolras as this untouchable Greek deity that it was a jarring but comforting sight to see him slouching around the apartment in an oversized sweater and messy bun.

And the cooking thing wasn't an issue – not really, anyway. It gave Grantaire endless excuses to spend time with him when they were at home. He would suggest something for dinner and Enjolras would inevitably ask to be shown how it was made, and they would pass a very pleasant evening cooking together in the small kitchenette.

So sure, living together was complicated, but definitely going better than expected.

Probably the weirdest thing about their new living arrangements, though, was that the two of them had started arriving at the meetings together - that was a new phenomenon. Normally overzealous Enjolras got there before anyone else, and Grantaire was a notorious late offender, frequently the last to arrive - but since moving in together they seemed to have struck up a strange harmony, setting off together and arriving perfectly on time.

Their friends had wolf-whistled endlessly the first time they'd shown up together - and the second time, and the third. But after four weeks the two of them cohabiting seemed to have _finally_ faded into being old news, and now their joint arrival only earned them a few raised eyebrows and discreet smirks.

Perhaps even weirder than them turning up to the meetings together, however, was the strange concord that had developed between them. It had started with their 'no arguments in the apartment' rule, and somehow, god knows how, trickled over into the meetings. They still debated, of course – some things never changed - but it never reached the point of raised voices the way it used to. Suddenly they were more careful with their choice of words, and when they _did_ antagonise each other they would take a break before they continued, Enjolras occasionally stepping outside and thinking nobody knew he was going for a cigarette.

It was new and pleasant and Grantaire didn't know what to make of it.

“Are you ready?” Enjolras' voice brought Grantaire suddenly out of his thoughts; he was pulling on his coat by the front door, staring at him expectantly. Meetings; that was what he was supposed to be doing. They had one now that they needed to get to, and they hadn't even left the apartment yet.

“Sorry,” Grantaire said guiltily, “I wasn't paying attention. I've got a lot on my mind.” 

_ And all of it you. _

Enjolras furrowed his brow, so stern that for a moment some foolish part of Grantaire thought he'd read his mind.

“Nothing bad, I hope?” he asked.

“No,” Grantaire said – and it wasn't a lie. He and Enjolras getting along better than ever _definitely_ wasn't a bad thing - it just so happened that it was a baffling and unlikely thing, and it was making squashing down his romantic feelings for him harder than ever. 

“Just school,” he said, hoping Enjolras didn't press further, “Projects and deadlines and stuff. You know how it is.”

Enjolras let out a small hum, zipping up his jacket, “Unfortunately so,” he said, smiling sympathetically; he looked tired, red around the eyes and paler than usual.

“Lets go, then. We don't want to be late.”

“Yeah...” Grantaire said, studying him carefully, “Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You just look bad,” Grantaire said, without thinking. Enjolras recoiled.

“Wow, thanks,” He said dryly, “You're your usual charming self this evening, I see,”

“No, shit, sorry,” Grantaire grimaced, “I didn't mean like that. You look great – you always look great,” he rambled, certain that he was making the situation a thousand times worse. Enjolras stared at him, eyebrows raised high.

“I just mean you look kind of tired.” he said at last.

Enjolras shrank into his coat, “I'm fine,” he said, so insistently that it became immediately clear to Grantaire that he wasn't.

“You're sure...?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, already heading out the front door with his phone in his hand, “I just feel a bit rundown – it's the weather changing, that's all. I'll be okay. Now lets go – I don't want everyone waiting around for us.”

 

* * *

 

 

The metro was crowded – it always was this time of day. Grantaire had forever lamented that for someone so dedicated to his activism Enjolras' planning skills were woefully inept. Who organised a meeting to start just after rush hour? Someone with no reasonable concept of time, that was who. Today though Grantaire cursed the met more than ever, because delays at Place De La Concorde had resulted in he and Enjolras being crammed into a busy train car together, pressed so close that it was practically obscene.

They were tangled together, breathing in each other's space; Grantaire was pretty sure he'd never been _this_ intimate even with some of the people he had _actually_ had sex with.

“This is awful,” Enjolras huffed, holding onto the rail above his head as the train jostled, “What's the time? Are we going to be late?”

“We were late ten minutes ago,” Grantaire informed him sadly; Enjolras let out a little sound of disappointment.

“ _Great,_ ” he said, pausing to cough a few times, “Just what we needed.”

“They'll wait for you. They wouldn't start without us,” Grantaire promised. Well, they wouldn't start without _Enjolras_ , anyway. Grantaire had never really contributed anything to the meetings beyond riling Enjolras up and occasionally helping to make protest signs. They wouldn't exactly be grieving his absence. 

“I guess you're right,” Enjolras said, face flushed, “Why is it always so hot on the met?” he complained. 

“It's cold,” Grantaire said, frowning, “In fact it's freezing. It's November, Enjolras.”

“Well I'm really warm,” Enjolras muttered, apparently more to himself than to Grantaire, “Maybe it's the T - I keep having hot flushes,” he said, letting go of the bar to struggle out of his coat. The train lurched forward at that exact same moment, sending Enjolras crashing into him with a little squeak of surprise.

Grantaire caught him almost instinctively, holding him against his chest, their faces mere inches apart. The close proximity should have probably made Grantaire's heart do backflips, and ordinarily he was sure it would have, but instead he got a good look at Enjolras' colourless cheeks and all he could do was worry about him. He looked like death.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said awkwardly – but he made no effort to move.

“You look sick,” Grantaire said bluntly, helping to prop him back on his feet, “Are you sure going to the meeting is wise?”

“Of course. I've never missed one,” Enjolras said, as though that fact alone justified his stubbornness. This information wasn't exactly new to Grantaire – once Enjolras had broken his wrist (*not* punching someone with a closed fist, he'd said...) and instead of resting up like he should have done he'd come to the meeting drugged out of his mind, much to the dismay of literally everyone around him.

“Well maybe you should,” Grantaire said, feeling bold enough to lay one hand gently on his arm; he told himself it was just to help steady him, but that would have been a lie.

“Just this once.”

“I'll be _fine_ ,” Enjolras snapped – and suddenly he sounded a lot more like the Enjolras that Grantaire was familiar with. 

“Just leave me alone.” 

Grantaire drew his hand back, feeling a bit like he'd just been punched in the heart.

“Alright,” he said.

It was pointless arguing with him.

 

* * *

 

 

They were almost half an hour late when they finally reached the Musain, Courfeyrac lighting up when he saw them both arrive.

“Enjolras! There you are!” He cried, flinging his arms around him, “We thought you'd killed each other or something!”

“Not yet,” Enjolras said lowly, looking as though he was considering it; Grantaire saw him peer curiously over Courfeyrac's shoulder, seeing that there were notes open all over the table.

“Did you start without me?” He accused, incredulous.

Grantaire immediately wished he'd never said anything about them waiting for him to get there.

“We just went over our opening points,” Combeferre told him.

“Yeah, we didn't get into anything really meaty,” Courfeyrac assured him, finally releasing him from his vice-like embrace, “Don't worry about it.”

Enjolras pursed his lips but said nothing.

“Shall we move on then?” Combeferre suggested; he adjusted his glasses the way he always seemed to do when things were about to get serious, and then suddenly looked Enjolras up and down, as though it was his first time seeing him. His expression dropped. Grantaire could instantly tell what he was thinking. 

“Enjolras,” he said, “You look---”

“I know,” Enjolras said coldly, shouldering past him and taking his laptop out of his bag, “Don't worry, my lovely roommate already informed me that I look like hell.”

Grantaire sighed, shoulders sagging as he made his way over to Joly and Bossuet.

“What took you so long?” Joly asked, pouring him a glass of wine.

“The metro was a nightmare,” Grantaire muttered, collapsing into an empty chair.

“You sure that's why?” Bossuet joked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively, “Sure nothing else was holding you both up...?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Grantaire snorted, “Have you seen the state of Enjolras? Do you really think he'd be up for what you're implying in his state? Or at all?”

“I guess we'll just wait and see if you get sick too,” Joly teased, passing him his drink, “Drink up.”

Grantaire took it gratefully.

 

* * *

 

The meeting had only been back underway for twenty-five minutes when Enjolras was pretty much forced to sit down by a very overbearing Courfeyrac. Moments later Combeferre came storming over to Grantaire's table, looming over it with that disapproving-parent aura he gave off so well. Grantaire put down his drink as though he feared it was about to be confiscated. It was Combeferre, so he couldn't rule the possibility out.

“Can I help you, Monsieur?” he asked. He could already tell where this was going, and he wished it would go literally anywhere else.

“Yes,” Combeferre said flatly, “I want you to take Enjolras home.” he gestured to the front of the room.

“He has a temperature.”

Grantaire's stomach churned.

“He won't listen to me,” he said, hoping that would make Combeferre rethink his request, “In case that wasn't a well established fact already.”

“Well fortunately he seems past arguing now,” Combeferre said.

Grantaire blinked, “Fuck, is he _dying?_ ”

Joly and Bossuet exploded into laughter beside him. He saw Combeferre's lip twitch ever so slightly, but his composure didn't crack for even a second.

“Take him home, Grantaire,” he said.

“Why me?”

“You live with him – ergo, you drew the short straw.”

Grantaire felt his mouth drop open, “ _You're_ the one who abandoned him to the terrible fate of having _me_ for a roommate,” he said, “You should do it – you're a doctor, after all!”

“First of all, not yet I'm not. And secondly, the meeting can't continue if I leave too.”

“But it can continue without _me_ , right?” Grantaire said scathingly, “Nice, Combeferre. Real classy.”

“Please just look after him - you can't pretend you don't care about him,” Combeferre said, “Nobody here is buying into that lie – not even you.” 

Grantaire felt like Combeferre had just dragged him naked through the streets for all to see. Even Joly and Bossuet had fallen very silent at his side. Never before had he been so directly called out about his feelings for Enjolras – or so publicly.  


“Fine,” he muttered darkly, giving up, “What do you want me to do?” 

“He can't stay here.” Combeferre said, “I've called you both a taxi. Get him home. Make sure he takes some painkillers and drinks plenty of fluids and _stays in bed._ ”

Grantaire glanced over at Enjolras, now slumped back pathetically in his seat whilst Courfeyrac petted his hair like a doting mother. It looked like all the fight had finally gone out of him.

“Okay,” he sighed, draining the rest of his wine in one go and getting to his feet. He felt like he was going to the electric chair.

“I'll see you guys later I guess,” he said to Joly and Bossuet, who simply raised their drinks as though in a toast.

“Good luck, R,” Bossuet said.

Joly gave a grave nod, “You'll need it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Getting Enjolras into the taxi wasn't difficult - he was dizzy but coherent, and Grantaire had a whole entourage of their friends to help him.

Getting him _out_ of the taxi at the other end, however, was proving to be a much more complicated feat.

In the ten minutes it had taken the taxi driver to weave through the Paris traffic Enjolras had progressed from sleepy to just plain asleep, resting his head against Grantaire's shoulder, and now Grantaire was faced with the arduous task of getting him up the stairs and into bed all by himself. It seemed unfair that he always found himself in these sort of situations – he must have done some fucked up shit in a past life to deserve this kind of misfortune, he thought. He could have given Bossuet's bad luck a run for it's money.

“Enjolras,” He said, giving him a gentle nudge as the taxi parked up outside their apartment building, “Hey. Are you okay?”

Enjolras barely stirred, opening one eye and squinting at him as though he didn't understand why he was even asking.

“Mhmmofcourse...” he said – more of an incoherent sound than a string of actual words - “M'fine.”

“Yeah, you look it,” Grantaire said, unable to hold off on the sarcasm even now. Joly and Bossuet had always said being an asshole was his coping strategy, and maybe they were onto something with that, because Grantaire definitely needed a strategy to help him cope with this.

“Where are we?” Enjolras asked, finally lifting his head off Grantaire's shoulder.

“Home,” Grantaire informed him, “We're home.”

“Didn't we have a meeting...?”

“You're too sick to stay at the meeting.”

Enjolras scrunched up his face like he wanted to vehemently disagree, but instead he remained quiet for once in his life. He didn't look like he even had the energy to argue about it - maybe he _was_ dying, Grantaire thought.

“Are you going to be able to manage the stairs?” he checked, helping him stumble out of the back of the taxi.

“Sure,” Enjolras murmured, nodding, “Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Just a bit dizzy...”

“Uh-huh.”

Miraculously they made it up the stairs - not without twenty minutes of complaining from Enjolras. Grantaire had to all but drag him to his bedroom, helping Enjolras to pull off his coat and shoes as he collapsed back onto the mattress.

As he watched Enjolras bury himself in his duvet - turning himself into an angry blonde burrito - a very uncomfortable thought entered Grantaire's mind. 

“Uh, you, um, should probably take your binder off.” he said, swallowing the jagged lump in his throat. 

Enjolras mumbled something incomprehensible. 

“Combeferre will kill me if you break a rib on my watch,” Grantaire said helplessly, fishing a dirty t-shirt off the bedroom floor and throwing it onto the bed for him to change into.

“I'll step outside, okay?”

“Thanks,” Enjolras muttered, sitting up in bed with a great deal of effort, “You don't need to leave, just turn around and give me a minute.”

Grantaire almost insisted that no, he totally _did_ need to leave, and not necessarily for _Enjolras'_ comfort, but the words never left his mouth. 'I don't want to be in the same room whilst you undress because it would horrify me' could definitely be misinterpreted in an insulting kind of way.

Instead he spun around, listening to the rustles of movement behind him as Enjolras changed and feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Okay,” Enjolras said eventually, “I'm good.”

When he dared to turn back around he saw Enjolras was once again cocooned in his duvet, watching Grantaire with red, exhausted eyes.

“Thank you for bringing me home,” he said, tentatively, as though he didn't really want to admit it, "Maybe I am a bit too sick to be at the meeting.”

“You don't say?” Grantaire said, raising one eyebrow.

“Don't make fun of me,” Enjolras said tiredly, “I'm not in the mood for it.”

“Sorry.”

“I'll let you off this once,” Enjolras said, “It's a hard habit to break, I imagine.”

Grantaire managed a small laugh at that, “Just a bit,” he agreed, sitting down on the edge of the bed.His heart was racing – a silly, practically teenage reaction to being in his crush's bedroom.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.” Enjolras said, laying his head back on his pillow, “I'm good. Combeferre fusses about me too much. I feel like I'm in some period drama, dying of consumption.”

“Well to be fair you _do_ look like it,” Grantaire teased, “But you _can't_ die, Enjolras – we have seven children to feed and winter is almost here!”

“ _Haha_ ,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes, “What did we just say about you making fun of me?”

“My bad,” Grantaire said, “You sure I can't do anything for you?”

“Stay with me?” Enjolras begged, so unexpectedly that for an instant Grantaire thought he was joking – perhaps payback for his own taunts and jibes. But Enjolras was looking deadly serious, and either the guy had developed the best poker face in the world, or he meant his request wholeheartedly.

Grantaire shifted awkwardly where he sat, “Uh...really?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, reaching out to grab Grantaire's arm like a very handsy octopus, “Please.”

“But you need to sleep,” Grantaire insisted, panicking internally; this wasn't what he'd signed on for when he'd agreed to be Enjolras' minder for the evening.

“I know,” Enjolras said, “And I want you to stay.”

“Whilst you sleep?”

Enjolras shuffled up in the bed in response, throwing back the duvet in a clear invitation to join him. _Fuck._

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Grantaire said, attempting to pry himself free, “I snore, you know? I'm not good to share a bed with. Just rest up, okay...?”

“Please,” Enjolras pleaded, “I don't like being alone when I'm sick. I usually have Combeferre or Courfeyrac stay with me...”

Of course he did. Hardly surprising – the three of them were inseparable. That Enjolras was completely comfortable having Combeferre and Courfeyrac snuggled up in his bed with him shouldn't have come as a surprise in the slightest.

But Grantaire was not Combeferre or Courfeyrac, and this was new, dangerous territory.

His stomach twisted into knots at the thought.

“Are you sure...?”

“Yes.”

Knowing full well he was going to regret it Grantaire, like an idiot, kicked off his shoes and crawled into bed beside him. Enjolras pulled up the duvet around them, closing his eyes.

“Okay,” Grantaire said, voice shaking, “There's nothing weird about this,” he reminded himself out loud, hoping that if he said it enough it might come true, “You're ill and we're friends. This is nice.”

“Mhmm...” Enjolras said, already well on his way to being asleep, “Thanks,” he said, pressing close to him.

 


	13. Chapter 13

“It's nice, isn't it?” Courfeyrac said brightly, setting Enjolras' coffee down in front of him.

“Really nice,” Enjolras confirmed. It wasn't a lie - Courfeyrac and Combeferre's new apartment was beautiful. It was like a larger version of Enjolras and Grantaire's, but unlike theirs it boasted an exposed brick wall in the living room and a much, much nicer view than crowded rooftops and chimney stacks. It had never been more obvious that Courfeyrac's parents had a lot of money. 

Even their balcony was larger, with enough room on it for a small table and two chairs, where Enjolras and Courfeyrac were now sitting enjoying lunch together. It was a cold day, even with the sun shining down over Paris, and Enjolras thought it would have probably been wiser to sit inside. Apparently Courfeyrac was determined to show off his balcony even if it meant wearing three layers of clothes. 

“The rent isn't exactly cheap, but it's worth it,” Courfeyrac said dreamily, gazing back into the apartment over his shoulder, “It feels like home already. Me and Ferre have wanted to get a place together for ages now, but we felt so bad about leaving you without a roomate..."

“Well fortunately that problem resolved itself, didn't it?” Enjolras said, “I'm happy for you both. Really - this place is lovely.”

In fact, it was almost _too_ lovely – Enjolras would have been a liar if he'd said he wasn't a little envious of it. It wasn't the size of the apartment or the pretty view that made him feel that way though – no. It was the fact that scattered all around the apartment was heartwarming evidence of Combeferre and Courfeyrac's relationship. There were notes to each other pinned on the fridge and photos of the two of them on every wall. It made Enjolras crave the same kind of thing from his own apartment – and from his relationship with Grantaire.

Whatever kind of relationship that was, anyway.

“Thank you – I feel like I'm moving up in the world,” Courfeyrac beamed, “We'll have to have a house warming party here soon, if I can talk Ferre into letting me.”

“Are you sure that's wise?” Enjolras raised one eyebrow, “Didn't the last party you host end in a trip to A&E?”

“Hey, it's not _my_ fault Bossuet fell through the glass coffee table,” Courfeyrac said, so defensively it was like he was being brought before a court, “That's _hardly_ indicative of my hosting abilities,”

“I had glitter on me for a month,” Enjolras complained, “It was awful.”

“Well there won't be any glitter bombs at this one – Combeferre banned them, it was one of our conditions for moving in together.”

“That's reassuring.”

“Just wait and see – it'll be great. What's the situation with your parents, anyway?” Courfeyrac inquired, changing the subject, “Any developments?”

“Sort of,” Enjolras said, “Their lawyer contacted me to make sure I knew very officially that I'm disowned and disinherited.”

Courfeyrac's smile fell right off his face; “Oh,” he said, “That's...fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up, should I?”

“It's fine – it's kind of cathartic to talk about it, actually. Honestly I'm surprised it took them as long as it did,” Enjolras shrugged, “They were probably hoping I'd come crawling home in a pretty dress, crying that I was wrong and that they were right all along.”

“Well you don't need them,” Courfeyrac decided, patting him on the hand, “You're tough. You'll get by without them – and hell, we'd never see you out on the streets. You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” Enjolras smiled, “But I won't need any charity from you guys - I got a job.”

“You did?” Courfeyrac gasped, eyes lighting up, “Well done! Where? Some law firm? Or did Amnesty International finally get back to you? Oh, tell me! I'm dying here!”

“The Corinth,” Enjolras announced proudly.

Courfeyrac's expression stayed the same. 

“The...Corinth?” he echoed, as though waiting for the punchline.

“Yes.”

“As in, the bistro?”

“Yes.”

“That little place near Place De La Bastille that's always dead?”

“That's the one.”

“Um...doing what, exactly?”

“Front of house.” Enjolras said, “Waiting tables and stuff...”

“Oh my god, honey,” Courfeyrac sounded so mortified it was as though Enjolras had just told him he was going to be working in a sweatshop, “You're going to _die!_ ”

“What? Why?!” Enjolras frowned, taken aback, “It's just a job---”

“In _food service_! Food service is a nightmare! And you do _not_ have the patience to deal with the sort of people food service exposes you to.”

“Feuilly manages it!” Enjolras protested.

Courfeyrac snorted, “Feuilly is a saint, that's why,” he said, as though that fact should have been obvious, “You're more like...an avenging archangel. Are you sure you're cut out for this?”

“Even if I'm not what other choice do I have?” Enjolras reminded him, “It's that or I can't pay rent.”

“Enj, I just told you---”

Enjolras cut across him, “I don't want to take any money from you.” he said firmly, “Please. I want to prove that I'm an adult, that I can do this for myself. Even if it _is_ hell on earth.”

The pity in Courfeyrac's eyes finally melted into understanding, and he smiled, “Okay,” he said, “In that case, good luck – I'm sure you'll be great if you put your heart to it, and I've never known you not to put your heart into everything you do. How'd you get the job, anyway? Don't you have like, no experience?”

“Grantaire...” Enjolras admitted, ears turning pink just saying his name, “He knows the management there and they owed him a favour, so...”

“What a good husband,” Courfeyrac joked.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, “He knows a lot of people – it's useful, I suppose.”

“Usefull – how romantic!”

“Oh shut up.”

“Speaking of - how _are_ you and your dear husband getting along? Still good?” Courfeyrac asked, using one finger to scoop the foam off the top of his cappuccino.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, looking down into his coffee, “Still good, I guess,”

“You guess?”

“No, really – we're good,” Enjolras said, tapping his nails anxiously against the side of his mug, “Well, mostly. There's been a _bit_ of a situation...”

“Oh?” Courfeyrac sucked the froth from his drink off his finger, “Do tell,” he pressed.

“Well, you know when I was sick last week?” Enjolras started, studying Courfeyrac's features for his reaction. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Well when we got home...I...we kind of ended up sharing the bed,” Enjolras said.

Courfeyrac grinned, “Oh Enj, that's cute! Why is that a situation? You were sick! I'm sure he doesn't think anything weird of it – and if he does you can always blame in on the headcold.”

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Enjolras looked down, clearing his throat, “But that isn't the situation.”

“Then what is?” Courfeyrac said, “Come on – put me out of my misery!” he begged, sipping his coffee.

“Well it's been over a week,” Enjolras continued, “And we're still sharing a bed.”

Courfeyrac slammed down his mug with so much force it made the table shake, spluttering loudly, “Fuck!” he cried, “Jesus, Enjolras – how do you time these things so well?” he said, gesturing to his cappuccino, “Are you _trying_ to send me to an early grave?”

“ _You_ demanded that I tell you,” Enjolras reasoned.

“Well yeah but you could have waited a few seconds!” Courfeyrac said, coughing, “Fuck! I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“Sorry.”

“It's fine, it's fine,” Courfeyrac said, shaking his head as though to gather his thoughts together, “So wait, you're sharing a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“And you're not sick?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Courfeyrac let out a low whistle, “Holy shit,” he said, “That's...wait,” he froze, eyes growing wide, “You guys haven't fucked, have you...?”

“No!” Enjolras said quickly, feeling the heat rush to his face, “God, no – it's not like that at all! It's totally innocent, I swear!”

“You're sure?”

“Of _course_ I'm sure! How could I _not_ be sure of something like _that?_ ” Enjolras said, outraged, “That sort of thing doesn't happen by accident! 'Oh dear, I seem to have woken up with your dick inside me, guess these things just happen!' - _seriously_ , Courfeyrac!”

It wasn't the sort of thing Enjolras would usually say, but he was immensely glad he did, because he'd never seen Courfeyrac look so stunned in all his life.

“Oh my god, can you _imagine?_ ” he said, his shocked expression finally crumbling into laughter, “Fuck – I'm sorry, Enj. That's the most crude thing I've ever heard you say! He's rubbing off on you! Oh, shit, wait – bad choice of words...”

“Shut up!” Enjolras groaned, certain that by now he was as red as a tomato, “You're awful!”

“But you love me anyway, somehow. Damn, sorry,” Courfeyrac waved it off, making a valiant effort to calm himself down, “Okay. Sorry,” he said, wiping at his eyes, “But _really?_ You're still sharing a bed and you haven't had sex?”

“Is the concept of sharing a bed with someone and _not_ fucking them really that alien to you?” Enjolras commented tartly.

“Ouch!” Courfeyrac said, holding one hand to his chest as though scandalised, “Don't slut shame me! Man, hanging out with Grantaire is making you catty.”

“I'm sorry – but seriously, Courf. It's totally platonic,” Enjolras said fiercely.

“It's not platonic if one of you is in love with the other.”

“Well even so it's not that weird!” Enjolras said, fully aware that he was trying to convince himself as much as Courfeyrac, “I mean, we're married!”

“Says Mr It's-not-a-real-marriage!” Courfeyrac accused, “It's a real marriage when it suits you, huh?”

“Forget it,” Enjolras sighed, “I knew I shouldn't have brought it up...”

“Yes you should,” Courfeyrac said, “It's an important development. How are you guys excusing sharing a bed in a totally no-homo way?”

“We're not really using an excuse,” Enjolras said, “We've just. Not talked about it. He stayed with me that night and that was it. He hasn't slept in his own bed since then.”

“Do you cuddle?”

Enjolras hesitated, certain that the next words out of his mouth would tie the noose to hang him with.

“Sometimes,” he confessed, “I'm the little spoon.”

“Oh my _god._ ” Courfeyrac squealed, covering his mouth with both his hands. It was probably the campest he'd ever looked, and that was really saying something; “That's so cute!” he exclaimed.

“I guess.” Enjolras said, “It's torture, actually.”

Courfeyrac closed his eyes, rubbing his temples, “Wait, so let me get this straight – ha! Sorry! - the guy spoons you in bed every night and you're _still_ convinced he's not into you?”

“It's cold,” Enjolras said weakly.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Courfeyrac moaned, throwing his hand up in the air with an over-exaggerated flourish, “This is _so_ painful to endure!”

“What is?”

“It doesn't matter – honestly,” Courfeyrac said, “Just give it a bit of critical thought, please? I swear, it's like you don't want to admit to yourself that maybe he likes you back.”

“Do you think he does?” Enjolras asked, voice small. Courfeyrac let out another dramatic groan.

“Yes! I love you Enjolras, but you're _killing_ me here.” he said, “Yes, I think he might like you back!”

“Really?”

“Yes! You should make a move!”

“I should?”

“Yes! Dear god, I feel like a broken record!"

Enjolras stirred his coffee thoughtfully; it was probably cold by now. Maybe Courfeyrac had a point - it _was_ an unusual progression for him and Grantaire to be cuddling in bed every night. He had that kind of easy affection with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sure, but never with Grantaire. This was new and different and perhaps it did point to something other than friendship.

“Maybe I will,” he said, “But what if he doesn't feel the same?”

“Well then you just apologise, tell him you respect him and don't want your friendship to change,” Courfeyrac said, "Simple misunderstanding."

“And what if he _does_ feel the same? _Then_ what?” Enjolras asked, almost dreading the thought more than rejection. 

“Then you fuck his brains out, geez!” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, “That's an obvious one.”

“But I've never...I mean...” Enjolras swallowed hard, not sure how to proceed. He'd never really talked to anyone about this – he'd never needed to before now. It was a pretty open secret that he was a virgin. And sure, he hated that word, and he'd given plenty of exhaustive rants in the Musain about how the concept of virginity was completely invented and meaningless, but the general idea of it was still there; he'd never had sex. And he was pretty sure Grantaire had had a lot of sex. It was just another area in life where they could not have been more different from each other.

And frankly, Enjolras was nervous.

“What if I'm not very...good at it?” he said at last. The smirk on Courfeyrac's face immediately softened.

“Sex isn't a skill that you level up in, Enjolras,” He said gently, “It's something passionate and intimate and if you're into him and he's into you that'll be more than enough, trust me. Plus you don't need to be all that experienced – you'd be in good hands. I heard through the grape vine that he's great in bed.”

Enjolras blushed again – he really didn't think he wanted to know who exactly Courfeyrac had heard that from.

“Really...?”

“Oh yeah,” Courfeyrac laughed, “I'm sure he'd show you what to do. You know, some good positions and stuff---”

“Okay, you can stop now,” Enjolras decided, trying not to laugh.

It was useless, really.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Grantaire was confused - confused and distressed. He couldn't understand how he and Enjolras had fallen into this strangely comfortable routine of sharing a bed together. It was completely out of left field. The first night had been almost excusable, sure – Enjolras had been sick and miserable and was probably missing having Combeferre living with him. That made sense. But the next night he'd mumbled to Grantaire that he still felt bad, could do with the company, didn't want to sleep alone...

And so Grantaire, like an idiot, had agreed. They'd woken up tangled together, a warm pretzel of legs and arms. They'd woken up like that and said nothing of it and went about making breakfast and having coffee together like normal. _Like it was totally fucking normal._

Since then Grantaire had been sharing Enjolras' bed with him every night, like a form of cruel and unusual punishment that he was willingly inflicting on himself. The truth was he enjoyed it almost as much as he hated it; sleepy Enjolras was sweet and clingy and soft around the edges in a way that Grantaire had never expected. It was like a drug, and Grantaire was addicted.

Thinking about this wasn't at all productive, he told himself - and he had a killer project that he needed to get finished. 

He set down his sketchpad, stretching his arms out in front of him and and glancing up at Enjolras, sitting on the other end of the sofa on his laptop. He'd been working for at least five hours, and Grantaire couldn't remember seeing him get up other than to top up his coffee. He probably had enough caffeine in his body to kill a horse. Their legs were laced together, something Grantaire reminded himself was due to a lack of space.

“You need a break.” he said, almost without thinking.

Enjolras didn't respond.

“Enjolras?”

“No I don't.” Enjolras said sharply, squinting his eyes at the bright screen in front of him, “I have to get this done.”

“You've been glaring at your laptop for like an hour,” Grantaire pointed out, “I've watched you delete and retype the same sentence at least thirty times.”

“I just can't get the wording right,” Enjolras said, “I won't be much longer.”

“You said that an hour ago when I suggested you got something to eat.”

“Don't you have your own projects to worry about?” Enjolras muttered.

“Well yeah, but I'm procrastinating – which contrary to popular belief can be healthy in moderation. Come out on the roof with me,” Grantaire urged, feeling unusually bold. Why was a mystery - either the crisp autumn air was going to his head or their new sleeping arrangements were making him overly confident.

It was enough to tear Enjolras away from his work for a moment, at least – he turned to look at him, confused, as though he'd not quite caught what he said.

“What?”

“Come out on the roof with me,” Grantaire repeated, “I told you I'd show you the view, didn't I?”

Enjolras hesitated for a moment, as though trying to absorb what he'd just said. He pursed his lips, fingers hovering thoughtfully over his keyboard.

“Alright,” he said finally, closing his laptop, “I suppose you're right. This essay isn't getting any more coherent the more I stare at it...”

“If anyone could will an essay into existence, it would be you,” Grantaire joked, “But even you have to admit defeat occasionally. Come on – it's cold out, grab a blanket.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire should have probably been more ashamed of the state of his bedroom, but, well, why break the habit of a lifetime? It was still full of boxes, with dirty clothes on the floor and art supplies taking up every corner of the room. He climbed onto his bed to open the window, trying to ignore how very obviously not slept in it was. 

“How did you find out about this?" Enjolras asked, puzzled, "Why were you even climbing out of your bedroom window in the first place?” 

“Well I was leaning out for a smoke and I noticed it,” Grantaire told him, starting to climb out, “I promise I wasn't trying to throw myself out of it or anything. Living with you isn't _that_ unbearable.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said dryly, all of his bravado abandoning him once he'd clambered out onto the roof. It wasn't too precarious; there was a good four-foot wide space to walk on, but beyond that it was a long way down by anyone's standards.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asked, noticing how suddenly very quiet he'd gone.

“I'm fine,” Enjolras insisted, but the colour draining out of his face said otherwise.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Shut up.”

“Okay...” Grantaire held out his hand, heart leaping when Enjolras took it without hesitation, “Come on – it's just around this corner. Don't worry, it's pretty flat all the way,” he reassured him.

“I am definitely going to fall and die,” Enjolras said, as though he was planning on it.

“No you're not,” Grantaire promised, “I've got you.”

“That's precisely what I'm worried about.”

“Oh come on – I'm not planning on making 'til death do us part' quite so immediate...” Grantaire said, eliciting a small laugh from Enjolras, “Hell, I don't even have life insurance on you.”

“And you never will.”

“Then what's the point? I wouldn't get anything out of pushing you to your death.”

“That's not funny,” Enjolras said, biting the words out, “This is a bad idea. _This is a bad idea,_ ” he muttered, repeating it like a mantra as he let Grantaire lead him along the roof.

“You'll be okay,” Grantaire insisted, “Ah, see – here,” he said, as the narrow corner of the roof opened up to reveal a relatively flat space between two chimney-stacks, about twelve feet across and ten feet wide.

“Ta-da!”

The sound Enjolras made when he saw the view was practically obscene; Grantaire hoped he never forgot it. He could hardly blame him – it _was_ breathtaking. From their perch up on the flat part of the roof they could see most of Paris; a vast swathe of rooftops and spires beneath a blue-black sky, hundreds of lights in hundreds of windows glittering in the darkness.

“Wow,” Enjolras said, his voice small, as though awed into silence by the sight of Paris at night; “It's beautiful,” he whispered, his breath coming out like fog on the cold air as he stared out at the twinkling city lights, eyes misty with wonder.

Grantaire felt his heart swell in his chest.

“As soon as I saw it I thought you had to see it.” he said, lighting up a cigarette, “I knew you'd love it.”

“I do,” Enjolras nodded, taking the cigarette from him without even asking. Grantaire let him without complaint, watching fondly as he continued to gaze out at the city like he was admiring a lover. It probably wasn't too far from the truth – Grantaire didn't think a man alive stood even half a chance at winning Enjolras' heart next to Paris.

“Thank you for bringing me up here,” Enjolras said, taking a drag, “Even if I thought I was going to die in the process.”

“Well hey, if you died at least you wouldn't have to pay your student loans back, right?” Grantaire joked. Enjolras' lips curled into a smirk around the end of the cigarette.

“True,” he said, “And there are far worse sights to be your last, I guess.”

“See? My idea wasn't that bad after all.”

“That's a first,” Enjolras commented, passing the cigarette back to Grantaire and huddling up in his blanket, “I can't believe I've never done this before.” he said.

“Well, Combeferre isn't exactly the type to encourage you to go recklessly climbing onto rooftops,” Grantaire said, “And I can't say I blame him, really. This _is_ pretty wild, by his standards.”

“Maybe I need to do wild things more often, then.”

Grantaire had to bite his tongue to avoid recalling a conversation they'd had in the past; 'I am wild' definitely wasn't an appropriate response to Enjolras' comment, he told himself. Instead he simply looked back out at the view, enjoying the comfortable silence that settled between them.

“I still can't believe we're in this situation,” he said after a long while, not taking his eyes off the skyline.

“Neither can I,” Enjolras admitted, “I didn't think I'd ever get married at all – but especially not like this.”

“Life is full of surprises, I guess,” Grantaire said, eyeing the silver band on his finger. At first he'd made a point of removing it, but now he no longer bothered. He barely felt it now – so much so that it was something he wasn't even aware of half the time. It had become almost disconcertingly comfortable to wear.

He looked across at Enjolras, hands scrunched up in his blanket, and noticed that he was still wearing his as well. It made his heart skip a beat.

Enjolras noticed him looking; he smiled sheepishly, flexing his hand almost self-consciously. 

“I know,” he said, admiring the ring, “I'm still wearing it. It turns out it stops people trying to hit on me when I'm out. An unexpected bonus of this arrangement.”

Grantaire raised one eyebrow, “You don't want people hitting on you, then?”

“Not when I'm busy,” Enjolras said, sounding uncertain, “Or at all, really.”

“You don't, uh, want a boyfriend or anything...?” Grantaire dared.

“I don't know. Maybe. I think I...well, it doesn't matter. But I have a lot of things that I want to focus on, and at the moment a boyfriend would just get in the way of it all...” Enjolras said, frowning, “I guess I'll just have to remain sexually frustrated for a bit longer...”

Grantaire almost choked on his laugh.

“Wow,” he said, “That's the most frank I've ever heard you talk about that kind of thing...”

_And definitely not what I needed to hear when we're sharing a bed..._

Enjolras huffed, burrowing further into his blanket until it was up to his nose, “Well it's true!” he said glumly, “Just because I have a lot of stuff on my plate right now doesn't mean it's not at least on my mind. I'm busy, not a _nun_.”

Grantaire wondered if now would be the right time to make a move in that 'I'm kidding unless you're down with it' kind of way – but he refrained, instead giving a little shrug.

“I get it,” he said, “I've not had a date in months. Trust me, you don't even want to _know_ how long it's been.”

Enjolras snickered, pushing his blanket away from his face, “You're right, I don't.” he said, his smile slowly growing more serious after a moment, “But really – I'm glad you brought me out here tonight. You were right - I needed a break.”

“You work too much,” Grantaire informed him, stubbing out his already dead cigarette, “You're going to drop dead one of these days if you keep this pace up. You need to do this kind of thing more often.”

“I do,” Enjolras agreed, turning to look at him.

Something strange passed between them, a look, half-knowing and half questioning. For a split second Enjolras looked as though he was building up to something. 

Their eyes met, searching, curious, and then - as though moving involuntarily - they leaned forwards in unison and their lips met. 

For a moment Grantaire was certain that he was dreaming – or that maybe they _had_ both fallen to their deaths as they'd climbed out onto the roof after all. Because Enjolras was kissing him – he was _kissing_ him, and with such ardent enthusiasm that there could be no mistaking his intentions.

It was no chaste kiss like the one they'd shared at their wedding – no, far from it. It was all tongue and teeth and fire and suddenly they were very, very close, Enjolras' blanket thrown haphazzardly to one side.

His mouth tasted of coffee and stolen cigarette smoke, and Grantaire didn't think he'd ever be able to get enough of it. Before he knew it his hands were on Enjolras' thighs, and Enjolras' hands were in his hair, fingers twisting eagerly in his curls.

_Fuck._

This couldn't possibly be happening, right?

It was so surreal that Grantaire couldn't even let himself enjoy it – he was waiting for the punchline, or the moment he woke up alone in his bed with an awkward erection.

But no, it had to be real – because Enjolras was warm and soft beneath his touch, making little sounds of pleasure into his mouth.

God.

This was happening.

It was happening, and frankly it was the most erotic experience of his life.

And then Grantaire panicked; they were getting hot and heavy very quickly, and though he was totally in favour of things escalating he had to remind himself that they were on the _roof_. If they had been anywhere else – anywhere more stable and not four stories up in the air – he would have gladly obliged in fucking Enjolras until he couldn't remember his own name.

But they weren't anywhere else – they were on the roof of their apartment building, on a cold November night, and there were probably people who'd be able to see them if they looked out of their windows.

There were worse ways to go, though – Grantaire was sure his friends wouldn't even mourn him if they did fall to their deaths.  

'Good for him,' Joly would say at his funeral.

'It was what he would have wanted,' Bahorel would back up.

But it probably wasn't how _Enjolras_ wanted to die (not nearly enough martyrdom involved in death-by-public-sex) and so with that in mind he forced himself to pull away, his breathing heavy. It was the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do, and frankly Grantaire was surprised he even had the self-restraint to manage it.

Their mouths lingered dangerously, promisingly close for a moment more, Grantaire struggling to gather his thoughts.

“Uh, maybe...I...we shouldn't,” he said, the words not coming out quite right. What he'd meant to say was 'maybe we shouldn't do this _here_ ', but apparently his tongue was still too focused on kissing Enjolras to form a coherent sentence.

And apparently what he _did_ say didn't come out the way he intended, because Enjolras looked as though he'd just been sprayed with cold water.

“I'm so sorry,” he said instantly, jerking away.

Grantaire opened his mouth to tell him it was okay, more than okay, wonderful – but Enjolras cut across him.

“I don't know why I did that,” he said, and it felt like he'd just fired an arrow into Grantaire's heart, “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—-I mean---I guess that's what happens when I'm overworked and don't have a boyfriend. I end up making out with friends.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, mouth hanging open; he could still taste him on his tongue, “Yeah. Uh, same. Single life is a hell of a drug.”

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras repeated, “I didn't mean that. Really – I'm sorry.”

“It's fine. I didn't either,” Grantaire lied, trying to save face, “It was just, you know – one of those moments.”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras sat back, staring out at the city again, “It's really cold out,” he said, picking up his blanket and throwing it around his shoulders like a cape, “I'm going to go back inside.”

“Do you need any help?” Grantaire offered, desperate, pathetic, craving some kind of additional contact with him – even if that contact was just holding his arm as he climbed down through the window back into the apartment.

“No,” Enjolras said, so swiftly that it could not have been more obvious that wanted to get away from Grantaire. Of course. He shouldn't have expected anything else.

“Goodnight,” he said, peeling away and making his way back inside.

Grantaire watched him go, the ache in his chest growing and growing until it felt like it was going to consume him from the inside out. He waited until he was sure Enjolras had gone back inside, and then put his head in his hands.

_Fuck._

He sat out there for another hour before he finally ventured back inside, retrieving his phone from the nightstand and sending a panicked text to Joly and Bossuet. Their replies buzzed back to him moments later; 'Come on over,' one said, 'We can drink about it,' said the other. 

Grantaire wasn't about to turn the offer down.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a little bit of sexual harassment. If you've worked customer service you know what it's like.

It was his third shift at the Corinth, and frankly Enjolras was starting to think Courfeyrac was right; he wasn't cut out for working food service.

It was exhausting and hot and it was taking every fibre of self-restraint he had not to get into arguments with the customers. So far he'd already had three people ask him if he was a boy or a girl, one elderly man shout at him for bringing him the wrong drink (a simple mistake, he'd tried to explain), and two women call him some derogatory names after he'd given them their bill.

To sum it up, he was hating every second of it.

He'd also decided very early on that Courfeyrac was right in his earlier assertion that Feuilly was a saint, because Enjolras was beginning to wonder how anyone could work more than six months in food service and still retain their faith in humanity. It had been barely a week for Enjolras and his was already starting to slip away. He was struggling not to think homicidal thoughts.

Feuilly was clearly a better breed of man than Enjolras could ever hope to be.

Okay, it probably _didn't_ help that he'd started work less than a week after the incident with Grantaire; his head was a mess and his heart was still bruised and apparently he dealt with heartbreak by shutting down and pretending he didn't have human emotions. He was learning some things about himself, at least.

He'd done what Courfeyrac said and made a move – and he'd thought it was a good one, really. They had been sitting together on a rooftop beneath the stars, sharing a single cigarette between them and gazing out at Paris at night. It had felt like the perfect moment – like something from a romantic movie. For a brief, blissful second he had been sure that Grantaire was kissing him back, but then he'd pulled away and crushed Enjolras' hopes to dust in an instant.

If Parisian rooftops under starlight fell flat, then all hope was lost.

He'd never felt like such a fool.

Now things were awkward at home – unbelievably, next level kind of awkward. They'd stopped sharing a bed and now barely interacted at all except in the tense, polite kind of way you interacted with a roommate you barely knew. They didn't talk, they didn't smile at each other.

They'd both removed their wedding rings, but Enjolras kept his in his pocket and wore it at work – he told himself it was to avoid being hit on by leery customers, but a small part of him knew it was more than that.

Grantaire had also apparently not explained their situation to management when he'd convinced them to give Enjolras a job, because the rest of the staff referred to him as 'Grantaire's husband' as though it were perfectly normal. That was painful. He wondered sometimes if he should correct them, but each time he thought about it the words wouldn't leave his mouth. A part of him liked it – it was the closest he was ever going to get to a real relationship with him.

“Hey!”

Enjolras jumped, nearly throwing the stack of plates in his hands; he spun around, coming almost nose-to-note with his manager. He didn't look happy.

“Are you even listening?”

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, flustered, “I was just distracted---”

“Well be distracted on your own time,” His manager said bluntly, “Table twelve needed clearing ten minutes ago.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Sorry,” Enjolras ducked his head in shame, rushing to drop off the plates he'd been carrying with the kitchen porter and then heading back out.

“We took a risk when we hired you,” His manager continued as he passed him, “We don't normally hire people without any experience.”

Enjolras wanted to ask how he expected anybody to get the experience to get work if everyone thought that way, but he held his tongue. It definitely wasn't the time or place for a debate about the discriminatory nature of the job market.

“I'm sorry,” he said instead, lowering his voice; there were customers looking over to see what was going on and the last thing he wanted was an audience to his humiliation.

“It won't happen again,” he promised quietly.

“It had better not,” His manager said coldy, turning and stalking off towards the bar and muttering under his breath about 'entitled kids'.

Enjolras sighed, hurrying over to table twelve.

 

* * *

 

 

The shift dragged on for what felt like forever, Enjolras watching the hour hand on the clock slowly creep by. He just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. How could he be expected to focus on smiling at customers and clearing up tables when he was heartbroken?

“Hey, you,”

Enjolras froze, steeling himself when he heard the gruff voice behind him. He grit his teeth, turning to face the man who'd called over to him; he looked like the typical asshole who didn't know how to take 'no' for an answer, with a foxish smile that made Enjolras' skin crawl. He looked like exactly the kind of guy his parents would have set him up with if they'd got their way, and that fact alone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Can I get you something, Monsieur?” he asked flatly.

“Yeah, maybe your number?” The man grinned.

Enjolras gripped the plates he was holding so tightly his knuckles turned white. He could practically hear the warning sirens going off in his head.

“No,” Enjolras said, in the same tone of voice someone might scold a misbehaving puppy.

“I'm married.”

“Oh come on don't be like that,” The man insisted, getting to his feet; he towered over Enjolras by a good foot, “What time do you get off work?”

“Long after you've left the bistro,” Enjolras told him, turning to leave.

“Hey, no, come here baby---”

The second Enjolras felt the man's hand come into contact with his hip he reacted without thinking; he dropped the stack of plates and whirled around, a blur of angry golden curls, slapping him hard across the face without hesitation.

There was a beat of silence. Time seemed to stop as Enjolras realised the severity of what he'd just done. The man was staring, mouth hanging open like it was the first time anyone had ever tried to smack some decency into him. There was a huge, burning red mark on his cheek and shattered pieces of plate all over the floor at Enjolras' feet.

_Oh no._

It took his manager exactly 0.3 seconds to come sprinting over, apologising profusely to the customer and dragging Enjolras off to the side by his arm. Enjolras went, too shocked to complain.

There was no way this could end well.

 

* * *

 

Combeferre's eyes widened when he opened the door to him, and Enjolras he realised far too late that he should have probably texted them to let him know he was planning to come over. It hadn't even crossed his mind in the aftermath of all the drama.

“Enjolras?”

“Hey,” Enjolras said quietly, “Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all...is something wrong?”

Enjolras bit his lip, hanging his head silently as he stepped inside.

“I got fired.” he said bluntly.

The next few hours saw him cocooned in a blanket between Combeferre and Courfeyrac on their sofa, a whole tub of icecream in his lap and 'La Revolution Francaise' on the television.

“So that asshole was harassing you and _you_ were the one who got in trouble for it?” Courfeyrac said, practically vibrating with rage.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, “Apparently they don't look kindly on their staff slapping the customers.”

“He deserved more than a slap if you ask me,” Courfeyrac muttered darkly, “Hell, if I'd been there...”

“You'd have been arrested for assault.”

“And I would have been proud of it,” Courfeyrac said.

“It _is_ unfair, Enjolras,” Combeferre agreed, “You should put in a complaint. Your manager might be awful, but I've heard the owners are good people. Ask Grantaire to speak with them, I know he knows them well.”

Enjolras' stomach writhed uncomfortably, “I'd rather not ask Grantaire to do anything on my behalf,” he said, “Things are complicated with me and him now.”

“How so?”

Enjolras took a deep breath, “Well..”

 

* * *

 

“Wait, let's go over this one more time, because I'm confused,” Courfeyrac said, apparently still bewildered despite Enjolras having told him the story at least three times already.

“You kissed Grantaire?”

“Yes,”

“You kissed Grantaire and he...rejected you?” Courfeyrac said, very slowly, “Did I get that right?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said through a mouthful of icecream, “That's right.”

“Grantaire... _rejected_ you?” Courfeyrac echoed, exchanging a look with Combeferre, “Seriously?”

“Yes! Don't make me say it again, please,” Enjolras said, stabbing the spoon aggressively into his icecream, “I don't even want to think about it.”

“It just doesn't make any sense,” Courfeyrac muttered, seemingly to himself, “I don't understand...”

“What's hard to understand? He's just not into me, clearly,” Enjolras said.

“What _exactly_ did he say, Enjolras?” Combeferre asked, looking just as confused as Courfeyrac.

“He just pulled away and said 'we shouldn't',” Enjolras said, shoving another spoonful of icecream into his mouth, “Please just leave it.”

Combeferre shook his head, as though trying to work out a particularly difficult crossword puzzle, “How strange,” he mused, “Is it possible he meant something else?”

“Like _what?_ ” Enjolras challenged, “Really, Combeferre? What else could he have possibly meant with my tongue down his throat?!”

“Well you _were_ on the roof,” He pointed out, brows knitting together thoughtfully, “Which I don't approve of, by the way. Those are old buildings, you don't know how structurally sound the rooftops are---”

“Point made,” Enjolras said tartly.

“---But, well, are you sure he wasn't trying to suggest that what you were doing wasn't a good idea on the roof?”

Enjolras had entertained this idea too briefly – mostly because he'd been sure he felt Grantaire kiss him back – but it had only been a passing thought.

“No,” he said, “He's gone all cold and quiet, like I insulted him. Surely if he'd meant that he'd have said so? He hates me, Combeferre...”

“He does _not_ hate you,” Courfeyrac said fiercely, “Don't get that thought into your head! Nobody hates you.”

“My parents do.”

“Well you parents are assholes, and it's their loss! Nobody else hates you. We all _love_ you.” Courfeyrac insisted, “Eat some more icecream. You'll feel better.”

Enjolras was inclined to disagree; there were some hurts even a gallon of double chocolate chip couldn't heal.

“My life is coming undone,” He sighed, “My parents cut me off, my love life is a joke, and I just got fired from the only job I've ever had after three shifts. How did it all go so wrong so fast?”

“That's life I'm afraid,” Courfeyrac said, slinging one arm around his shoulders to draw him in for a hug, “It'll get better, you'll see.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I'm always right! Aren't I, ferre?”

Combeferre's lips curled into a small smile, “You have your moments,” he said affectionately.

“See? We love you, Enj,” Courfeyrac reminded him, kissing his cheek, “We're always here if you need us. Why'd it take you so long to tell us this, anyway? I thought you'd have been over here the same night...”

“I guess I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened,” Enjolras confessed, “My first attempt at romance and it sank harder than the Titanic – I was embarrassed. But then I got fired and everything just kind of came crashing down on top of me...”

“We've all been there.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, “Really? Even you?”

“Well, no,” Courfeyrac admitted, smiling sheepishly, “But lots of people!”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. You can stay here tonight, if you want?”

It was a tempting offer; the thought of going home to Grantaire was a harrowing one. Ever since the kiss Enjolras had been staying out as late as possible, camping out at the 24-hour cafe down the street and creeping into the apartment when he was sure Grantaire would be asleep.

But he couldn't avoid him forever – it wasn't possible, and it wasn't fair. They'd been getting along. They'd been developing a tentative friendship. He didn't want to make Grantaire feel like he'd only been enjoying his company because he was attracted to him. He knew Grantaire didn't think much of himself, and the last thing he wanted was for him to think that because he'd rejected Enjolras romantically Enjolras was rejecting him as a whole person.

He shook his head, sighing with defeat.

“No,” he said, “I can't keep avoiding the situation - I have to go home whether I really want to or not. Thanks, though.”

“Alright. Good luck.”

Combeferre gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder, “If you need us, you know where we are,” he reminded him, “You're welcome here no matter what time it is.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras smiled, laughing slightly as they both enveloped him in an awkward group hug. Sure, his life was unraveling, and that sucked – but at least Combeferre and Courfeyrac's friendship was a constant.

"And we'll find you a better job," Courfeyrac announced.

"One where the management aren't useless," Combeferre seconded.

 

* * *

 

 

It was past ten when he finally got home, his feet throbbing from running around the Corinth all day and his hair drenched from the rainstorm he'd got caught up in on the way back. Curls and a torrential downpour did not mix well - he didn't even want to imagine how sorry he looked. He probably resembled a drowned kitten.

Grantaire was still in the living room, sprawled out on the sofa with his laptop and a nest of coffee mugs around him. He glanced up briefly when Enjolras entered the apartment, before averting his eyes and pointedly staring back at his screen.

“Bad day at work?” He said, in that forced way people tried to make small talk. It made Enjolras' heart ache almost as much as his feet did.

“Is it that obvious?” Enjolras said a little sarcastically, shrugging off his coat; it was soaked through.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbled, “Just asking.”

Enjolras winced, “No, I'm sorry – it's not your fault food service is a nightmare.”

“What happened?”

“I got fired.”

Grantaire closed his laptop and finally looked at him properly, scowling, “What?” he said, “For _what?_ You've only been there a week, how could you possibly have screwed up _that_ fast?”

“Some creep put his hands on me,” Enjolras explained; he saw Grantaire stiffen slightly where he sat, his jaw twitching.

“And so I put my hands on him," he said, "Pretty aggressively."

“Oh,” Grantaire said, “Well he deserved it, then.”

“He did.” Enjolras nodded.

“I'll speak to the owners,” Grantaire decided, opening up his laptop again, “They can't fire you for defending yourself.”

“My manager seems to think they can,” Enjolras said miserably, “He's an asshole. Why are people so awful?”

He saw Grantaire smirk a little from behind his computer, “Careful,” he said, “You'll start to think the same way I do – god forbid.”

Enjolras didn't respond, instead hanging up his wet coat and pulling off the wedding ring he was still wearing. He slipped it in his back pocket, swapping it for a hair tie and tying back his hair.

“The weather is terrible too,” he reported.

The conversation was so painfully stiff that he wanted to cry. Just a week ago they'd been so close they could pass for a real couple, and now they were talking like they were strangers waiting for the same metro train.

“I couldn't tell,” Grantaire said dryly.

Enjolras forced a small smile, tucking a single rogue curl behind his ear, “You had a project due today, didn't you?” he remembered, “How did it go?”

“Better than expected,” Grantaire said, “Just the fact I got it finished on time is a miracle.”

“I hope you get a good grade on it.”

“Doubtful.”

Enjolras fidgeted uncomfortably where he stood, wondering if he was feeling brave enough to sit down – he'd have to ask Grantaire to pull up his legs if he did.

“At least your day went better than mine,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I suppose. Hey, uh...can we talk about the other night?” Grantaire asked suddenly; Enjolras felt his heart leap in his chest. He hadn't expected that; it had been almost two weeks since The Incident, and he was starting to think they'd never talk about it again. It had been wishful thinking, really.

“No,” he said quickly, swallowing hard, “Please. I don't want to.”

The last thing he needed was to be rejected all over again – the wounds were still fresh enough as it was, and his day had been a disaster.

Grantaire looked stung by his words.

“But---”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Enjolras reiterated firmly, “Really. I get it, okay? There's no need for further discussion. It happened; it was a mistake. That's it.”

Grantaire seemed to curl in on himself, his expression growing dark, “Alright then,” he said, “Sorry for bringing it up...”

“It's fine. Just, please – don't do it again.”

“Trust me, I won't.”

Enjolras gave an awkward smile, “Good. Anyway, uh, it's late,” he said, pointing over his shoulder towards his bedroom, “I'm going to head off to bed...”  
“Uh-huh,” Grantaire didn't look up, “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” Enjolras said, wishing more than anything that Grantaire would join him.

 


	16. Chapter 16

“Come on, R, cheer up – it's been three months!”

Grantaire winced; he didn't need reminding. He knew it had been three months – three long, agonizing months since the Kiss That Never Happened as he was calling it.

Well, it had happened to him, at least.

But not to Enjolras.

Enjolras didn't seem to want to acknowledge it at all; hell, he didn't even seem to want to acknowledge Grantaire.

He pretended to get along with him, of course - probably because he didn't want any tension at the meetings – but it was a sorry effort.

He was polite, he went out of his way to make small talk , and once he'd even brought Grantaire coffee when he was working on a project - but he wasn't fooling anyone.

Grantaire saw the way he looked at him – disdainfully, and like he was filled with regret - and he'd heard him tiptoeing back into the apartment when he thought he was asleep, like he'd been waiting until Grantaire was in his room to come home. 

It made him feel sick to know he went to such lengths to avoid him.

“R?” Joly said again, nudging him in the ribs, “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” He responded bitingly, “Do I _look_ okay?”

“You never really look okay,” Bossuet said as he joined them at their table, bringing with him a round of shots from the bar.

“Here,” he said, setting the tray down in front of him, “A temporary remedy for your blues.”

“Doctor approved,” Joly agreed, lifting one of the glasses in a toast and throwing it back.

“You're not a doctor yet,” Grantaire reminded him.

“I still have more medical knowledge than you,” Joly said, slamming the glass back down,“And I'm prescribing you vodka, karaoke and dancing!”

“Fine,” Grantaire said, taking a shot; it burned down his throat like fire, but he didn't care. He felt numb inside and out.

It had been Joly's grand plan to get him out to one of the bars off Champs-Élysées to forget his woes - it wasn't really working, as far as he could tell.

“He hates me,” He murmured, tightening his hand around the empty shot glass, “It's torture living with him now. We were getting along great – now we barely say five words to each other all day...”

“Don't dwell on it, R,” Bossuet said gently, “Try to put it out of your mind for one night. You're being too hard on yourself, man.”

“Of course I'm being hard on myself! It's my fault!”

“How is it _your_ fault that Enjolras kissed _you?_ ” Joly scowled.

“I don't know! I'm sure it is, somehow. Everything always seems to be my fault.”

“R...”

“And then I tried to bring it up and I made things worse,” Grantaire said, ignoring him,“I just want to go back in time and undo it.”

“Well you can't. You can just try to deal with the fallout.” Bossuet said, “Have you tried to talk about it since?”

“God, no! He's unapproachable. It's like living with the fucking ice queen from Narnia or some shit,” Grantaire scoffed, taking another shot. If Joly and Bossuet were paying then he planned to get thoroughly wasted.

“She wasn't actually an ice queen,” Joly corrected, “She just set off an eternal winter and---”

“Okay, I don't care, it was a bad analogy,” Grantaire groaned, resting his head on the table, “I feel like shit.”

“Well drink some more so you can feel like shit for unrelated reasons,” Bossuet advised. Grantaire ignored him.

“I tried to make things right,” he said pitifully, “I even asked him if he still wanted to go to the Delacroix exhibition we were meant to go to together. Fuck, the look on his face! You'd think I'd just asked him to burn down the Pantheon with me.”

“What did he say?”

“No, of course! Christ!”

“Sorry,” Joly smiled sadly. His gaze moved past Grantaire, over his shoulder, “Hey! Hey – R, forget Enjolras for half a minute if you can. That girl, in the corner,” he said urgently, seizing his wrist and shaking him, “Look!”

Grantaire sighed, lifting his head off the table and glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes?” he said, “What of her?”

“She's been checking you out since we got here,” he whispered, “I didn't say it because I wasn't sure at first. But she is really giving you the look...”

Grantaire grimaced, “Seriously? How low are her standards?”

“Hey, you're handsome!” Bossuet argued, “In a scruffy, unwashed kind of way.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“I mean it! Look, quick---she's looking over here again!”

Grantaire did as he was told; sure enough she was staring at him with that dark-eyed, inviting sort of expression you only gave to a stranger you wanted to fuck. She was as far from Enjolras as you could get – a woman with straight, dark hair and noticeably hazel eyes. Nothing like the golden, curly-haired man Grantaire was licking his wounds over.

She was beautiful in a strange sort of way, and exactly what Grantaire needed right now. What better way to forget about Enjolras?

He turned back to Joly and Bossuet, “Should I go talk to her...?”

“Yes!” They both cried in unison, practically pushing him out of his seat, “Go on! Get it, R!”

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire went like he was walking onto a battlefield, making his way across the room to where the woman was standing at the bar. A part of him was already bracing himself to be rejected, but her eyes lit up as he approached.

“Uh, hey,” He said, hoping his smile didn't look as pained as it felt.

“Hey,” she said, grinning, “Your friends elbow you to come over here?” she guessed, glancing over at Joly and Bossuet, who were pointedly pretending to mind their own business and proving extremely bad at it. Grantaire smirked slightly.

“That obvious...?”

“Just a bit. I don't mind if you needed some encouragement - you're cute enough to get a free pass. Just this once.”

That made Grantaire laugh, “Do you need glasses?”

“I mean it – you're not too bad to look at.”

“It must be a trick of the light,” Grantaire informed her playfully, “It's pretty dark in here.”

“Don't be _too_ modest, I don't like that in a guy.” she joked, holding out her hand, “I'm  Adrienne.”

“Grantaire,”

Adrienne raised one eyebrow, “Grantaire? That's not a first name.”

“It's what everyone calls me,” Grantaire shrugged.

“What, no real name?”

“Grantaire is a real name, it's just a surname. My parents just had really bad taste in first names – trust me.” he said, “You don't want to know it any more than I want to tell you it.”

Adrienne snickered, “Alright then, Grantaire,” she said, “Are you going to buy me a drink, or should I get you one?”

“Oh – yeah, of course, sure.”

“Sure what?”

“I'll get you one. Sorry,” Grantaire floundered, “What do you want?”

“A small white wine.”

“Coming right up,” Grantaire said, clearing his throat and turning to the bar to order.

 

* * *

 

They spent the next few hours sat in a dark booth together, flirting heavily and talking about trivial things. He learned that she was a history student, had been born in Lyon, and dreamed of working in the Louvre. She was fun, with a sharp wit and a charming smile. It was frustrating, really - if Grantaire hadn't been so hung up on his feelings for Enjolras, Adrienne would have been a perfect match for him.

“Wait, you're part of that activist group, right?” She asked, sipping her wine, “The one on campus...?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Grantaire said, caught off guard, “I'm not really part of it, exactly, I just kind of...show up...”

“You don't have to be shy about it!” Adrienne laughed, “I like my men with a bit of social awareness. You have no idea how many times I've had to educate my dates about feminism.”

Grantaire chuckled, “I'll bet,” he said, looking down into his drink, “I bet that's no fun.”

“Not at all. What's it like, anyway? That club?” Adrienne said, tilting her head, “I've thought about going a few times. Is it any good?”

A bitter, jilted part of Grantaire wanted to say 'no' – to talk down Les Amis as a sad, petty way of getting revenge on Enjolras for treating him so coldly – but he couldn't. Even now, hurt as he was, he only had good things to say about him. It was hopeless, and he hated it.

“It's great.” he said, “They're making a lot of change.”

“That's nice. Maybe I'll come along next time,” Adrienne said, looking up at him from beneath her long dark lashes, “If it wouldn't be too weird for me to be there, of course...”

“Uh, no – of course not,” Grantaire said, swallowing hard, “I'd like that.”

“It's a date, then,” she said.

“I guess it is,” Grantaire agreed.

“In the meantime...” Adrienne said quietly, shuffling closer to him on the seat until their legs were touching, “I can think of a few other things you might like...”

“Oh...?”

“Yeah..."

She stared meaningfully at him, her rose coloured lips parted in a silent request for consent, and it suddenly became very clear what she was suggesting.

Grantaire went along mindlessly, kissing her; this was what he needed, he reminded himself.

She tasted like dry white wine and something sweet; nothing at all like Enjolras he thought, before desperately trying to push the memory to the back of his mind. Her perfume filled his senses, dizzying and distracting.

The next thing he knew her arms were snaking around his neck and she was in his lap. He pulled away, breathless.

“My place is just down the street,” Adrienne whispered, “Would you like to come back with me...?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded, “Sure.”

And he did want to – it wasn't a lie. She was hot, and he was lonely, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a good offer. It had been an embarrassingly long time. Grantaire counted his blessings that she wasn't a blonde – names slipped out too easily in the heat of the moment.

They left the bar together, Adrienne taking his hand and whisking him outside, Bossuet trying to discreetly low-five him as they passed by their table.

 

* * *

 

 

They reached her apartment building in no time at all, Adrienne pushing him up against the front door and kissing him again hungrily.

He had to hand it to her, she had a lot of passion, and it felt good to be kissing someone that actually wanted to be kissing him back. He put his hands on her hips, pulling her body flush against his. That felt good too – it had been far, far too long.

“Fuck,” Adrienne panted, tearing herself away like it was physically painful to do so and fumbling to put the key in the lock, “Just a second,” she said.

The door opened and she guided him backwards into the hall, closing it behind her.

“My roommate is out tonight,” she told him with a sly smile, pulling her shirt over her head, “We don't have to be quiet...”

They made it all the way to her bedroom door before Grantaire's determination faltered; as Adrienne started undoing the front of his jeans a deep, sickening feeling crept into the pit of his stomach – and it wasn't the alcohol.

It was guilt, writhing like a mass of snakes in his gut. 

Suddenly kissing Adrienne felt wrong.

It felt, in a word, unfaithful.

“What's the matter?” Adrienne asked, noticing how he hesitated, “Getting cold feet...? I promise I don't bite,” she said, peppering his jaw with kisses, “Not unless you're into that, anyway...”

Grantaire's stomach turned over; he pried himself away, face red, “I'm sorry,” he said, “I...I don't know if I want to do this after all...”

“Oh.” She blinked once, removing her hands from his shoulders; “Okay. That's fine.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” Adrienne said, “Men are allowed to say 'no' just as much as anyone else. You don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

“Right. Of course. Awesome.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Thanks,” Grantaire said, taking an apologetic step back from her, “See, it's just that, well, I'm married and---”

He heard the slap before he felt it, but boy, when he felt it he _really_ felt it.

He held one hand to his cheek, flexing his jaw, “Fuck!” he hissed, “What the hell was that for?!”

“You're _married?!_ ” Adrienne accused, puffing up her chest angrily, “You _dog!_ 'Single' my ass!”

“No, you don't understand—“

“Let me guess, you're 'on a break'?” She sneered, “I've heard it all before. Get out of here! I don't want to be the other woman!”

“You'd have a job of it, he's a guy---”

“That's even worse!” Adrienne said, appalled, “If you're gay or bi or experimenting or something that's _fine,_ but it won't be with _me!_ ” she grabbed her shoe off the floor like a weapon, swatting him with it. Grantaire was only thankful she hadn't been wearing stiletto heels.

“Go home to your husband!” she yelled.  
“I'm going!” Grantaire promised, holding up his hands to defend himself, “I'm sorry!”

“You should be!”

 

* * *

 

Okay, it was a lie – he had no intention of going home to Enjolras just yet. Instead he made his way back to the bar, disheveled and humiliated to his very core. He deserved it, really – without explaining his and Enjolras' unusual arrangement going home with someone only to tell them he was married _was_ an asshole move. His face still stung from the slap, but he could hardly blame Adrienne for it. She'd been in the right – or at least, she'd thought she was.

He found Joly and Bossuet still at their table, laughing together about something. They both stopped dead when they saw him, raising their eyebrows in surprise.

“You're back?” Bossuet said.

“Damn,” Joly said, “That was, uh...fast.”

“Fuck off.” Grantaire growled, slumping down into his seat.

“I know it's been a while, R, but that's got to be a really sad world record.” Bossuet snickered.

“You'll be disappointed to know that nothing happened,” Grantaire said, “I bailed at the last second.”

“Oh...” Joly and Bossuet exchanged a worried look, “Seriously? Like, no judgement or anything – you don't need to go home with anyone – but like, did you leave because you weren't into her, or did you leave because of, you know...”

“Enjolras.” Bossuet finished, sipping his beer.

Grantaire felt himself physically wilt in his chair; there was no use denying it. He was as transparent as a pane of glass.

“Enjolras,” he confirmed, “Adrienne was really nice, don't get me wrong, but it...it felt like _cheating_...”

“R...” Joly said, “It's not real...”

“I know, okay?” Grantaire cut across him sharply, shoulders tensing up like he was under attack, “You think I don't? I get it. It's not a real relationship, so I'm not being unfaithful by fucking someone else,” he looked down, “I just couldn't go through with it, alright? Forgive me if part of me wants to stick to my marriage vows - even if they _were_ a sham.”

“What, forsaking all others _as long as you both shall live_?” Bossuet said, gawking at him like he'd lost his mind, “Seriously, R? You're going to live like a nun because of some dumb ceremony that meant nothing?”

“Yes! Well, no. I don't know, okay?” Grantaire frowned; that weird, imagined sense of infidelity was still hovering at the back of his mind, “I'm sure I'll hook up with someone else eventually. But I'm not ready yet. It still feels fresh.”

“Alright. Do whatever you need to do,” Joly said, voice softer than before, “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, stealing Bossuet's beer from him and taking a large swig, “Get another round of shots in.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

Enjolras stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, mind racing. It was late – very late – and he should have been asleep hours ago. It was impossible, at present; he felt like someone had reached into his stomach and tangled up his insides like shoelaces. Everything was a mess. His love life, his work life, his family life – it all lay in tatters at his feet.

He'd been to countless job interviews over the last three months, receiving a condescending look every time he presented his pitifully short resume.

He'd hoped that putting his work with Les Amis down on it would prove useful – leadership skills and all that, right? Instead, it seemed to have backfired terribly – who knew employers actually went away and researched these things?

'You have multiple warnings from the police and barely any experience,' one HR manager had said, 'Try somewhere else'.

He had tried somewhere else – he'd tried _everywhere_ else, and he was starting to lose hope. If he crashed and burned he'd only be proving his parents right, and that thought alone made him feel physically sick.

And then there was the continuously tense situation between him and Grantaire, of course. Ever since the incident on the roof everything had been different, and not for the better. Grantaire barely spoke to him – actively avoided him, it seemed. The memory of that kiss seemed to loom over them both, and Enjolras couldn't get away from it.

He rolled over in bed, trying to push thoughts of Grantaire out of his head; it was easy to let his mind wander when he was lying in bed, lonely and longing, with testosterone making his hormones rage like wildfire.

He was just drifting off to sleep when he heard the front door swing open, followed by the thudding of feet and an ominous thump. He sat up, grabbing a blanket from the end of the bed and throwing it over himself like a cloak.

Another crash echoed through the apartment.

_Grantaire._

He'd gone out earlier that night with Joly and Bossuet, the two of them urging him to come with them to a bar. He hadn't seemed all that enthusiastic about when he'd left, but that had been hours ago.

Half dreading what he might find Enjolras slipped out from under the covers, padding quietly down the hallway. He stopped in the doorway to the living room, flicking on the light; Grantaire was stumbling blindly around the room, looking like he was trying to figure out how to work the record player in the dark.

The front door was wide open, letting in a gust of cold air from the stairwell, and his coat was on the floor.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras said, pulling the blanket tightly around himself and shivering from the chill, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Sorry,” Grantaire slurred, “Didn't mean to be too loud. I'm trying to put some music on...” he turned to look at him, eyes clouding with confusion, “Are you still awake? Fucking hell, you need to learn to take a break...”

“I was sleeping,” Enjolras lied, “You woke me up.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“It's fine,” Enjolras said tersely. It wasn't fine, not really, but things had been too fragile between them lately for him to say that. He wrinkled his nose, looking Grantaire up and down. He could smell the alcohol on him from where he stood in the doorway. There was something else, too, masked by the overpowering stench of stale cigarette smoke and whiskey, but Enjolras couldn't quite place it.

“You're drunk,” he said, pointing out the obvious.

“Well spotted,” Grantaire said with a dramatic flourish, “I have indeed imbibed a little too much this fine evening. Blame Joly and Bossuet, they were the ones buying the drinks.”

Enjolras frowned, studying him more carefully; he was a mess, his dark curls ruffled and his eyes ringed with red.

He looked a bit like he'd been in a fight, and---and there was lipstick on the collar of his shirt.

Enjolras felt his heart stop. Perfume – that was the smell he'd struggled to identify. _Perfume._

“Did you have a good night?” he said quietly.

“Yeah, it was great,” Grantaire said, collapsing back onto the sofa and clumsily kicking off his shoes, “I had fun.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Enjolras said, his hands curling into fists at his side.

He fought back his jealousy, knowing deep down that he had no right to feel hurt. They weren't a real couple - Grantaire was under no obligation to remain faithful to him. Their marriage was a sham, he reminded himself.

“I met a girl,” Grantaire said, as though Enjolras wasn't already painfully aware of that fact, “She was nice. Adrienne. Really pretty. She's a history student.”

“She sounds...awesome,” Enjolras whispered, swallowing the jagged lump in his throat.

Why was Grantaire doing this? It had to be on purpose – there was no other explanation. He knew how Enjolras felt about him. He didn't have to feel the same way – not at all – but to so spitefully rub his conquest in Enjolras' face when he knew his heart was still bruised? It was cruel, and Enjolras resented him for doing it.

Of all Grantaire's flaws, _cruel_ was something Enjolras had never expected from him.

“I can't believe you,” he said, voice dangerously low.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire said, raising one eyebrow, “What's wrong?”

“What do I mean?” Enjolras echoed, feeling himself starting to tremble, “ _What do I mean?!_ You have the audacity to show up here at four in the morning, reeking of alcohol and some girl's perfume and then ask me---you insensitive _asshole!_ ”

“What?!” Grantaire's expression turned stormy in an instant, “This is _my_ apartment too, Enjolras. If I want to come home stinking drunk in the small hours of the morning I can,” he said, holding up his hands, “I pay the rent. I'm on the lease. You know me, and you knew what you were signing up for when I moved in with you.”

“Well you could have at least been quieter about it!” Enjolras snapped, “And a bit more discreet about your new girlfriend!”

“She's _hardly_ my girlfriend,” Grantaire snorted, laying his head back against the back of the sofa, “And what's it to you if I got laid tonight or not?”

“You _know_ what!” Enjolras yelled. He could feel tears starting to push at the corners of his eyes. He wouldn't cry, he told himself – not until Grantaire was gone, at least.

“You don't own me,” Grantaire said, “Just because we have this stupid fucking arrangement...”

“That's not what I meant."

“Yeah, sure it's not. You can't have it both ways!” Grantaire said angrily, lifting his head again to look at him, “I'm allowed to fuck other people – ha! _Other_ people, as though this is a real marriage...”

“Of course you're allowed!” Enjolras screamed back, voice hoarse, “But you don't have to be so _insensitive_ about it!”

“Insensitive? You're one to fucking talk!” Grantaire leapt suddenly to his feet, eyes flashing; Enjolras took a small step back, alarmed.

“Me, insensitive?!" he said, voice rising, "You're the coldest, most insensitive bastard I've ever had the misfortune to live with! This marriage was the _worst_ mistake of my life!”

Enjolras recoiled.

It felt Grantaire had just punched him in the stomach. He stared at him, mouth hanging open. In all the time they'd known each other, through all their fights in the Musain, Grantaire had never before said something so vicious to him. It felt like he'd thrust a dagger straight into his chest.

“I...Grantaire---”

“No! Fuck you, Enjolras,” Grantaire snarled before he could get a word in, “You _don't_ get to suddenly dictate who does or doesn't get my affection! You made your mistake, okay? Learn to live with it – I'm having to.”

Enjolras was sure he felt the exact moment his heart broke in two.

“Grantaire,” he started, “I'm sorry. Grantaire, I----”

“Save it. I'm fed up of...this,” Grantaire said, gesturing violently to the empty space between the two of them, “I'm sick of it. I can't do it anymore, Enjolras. I'm glad I went home with Adrienne tonight – it was _exactly_ what I needed.”

“I don't want to know!” Enjolras said, shaking – he wasn't sure why any more. Rage? Tears? He couldn't quite figure it out.

“Just go, Grantaire!”

“Go?”

“Yes, _go!_ Get out!” Enjolras decided, pointing him to the door, “This was _my_ apartment first. You can leave and come back tomorrow when you've sobered up - if that's even possible!”

It was a low blow, he knew, and he shouldn't have said it – but Grantaire had struck first, and Enjolras wanted to hurt him.

Grantaire let out a bitter laugh, “Nice,” he said, giving a slow, exaggerated round of applause, “Very creative. Like I've _never_ heard that one before."

He picked his coat off the floor, throwing it over his shoulders, “You don't have to ask me twice. Why would I want to stay when you barely even talk to me, anyway?”

Enjolras didn't respond. His head was reeling and it felt like his heart had jumped up into his throat. He was worried if he said anything it might come tumbling out of his mouth for all to see.

“See?” Grantaire said, voice low, “Just like I said.” he shrugged on his coat, eyes fixed on his feet.

“Combeferre was right when he disapproved of this idea. It's a disaster.” he muttered under his breath.

Enjolras swallowed hard, hugging the blanket around himself. He couldn't even bring himself to look up as Grantaire stormed out of the door.

“Bye,” he said, “I'll see you when I see you, I guess.”

He slammed the door behind him as he left, making the whole apartment shudder in his wake.

Enjolras stood there until he heard Grantaire disappear down the stairs, unable to move, every mean word that had passed between them echoing in his head. He wondered if he'd ever come back.

He'd ruined everything. None of this had been Grantaire's idea – none of it. Enjolras had suggested they get married. Enjolras had asked him to move in. Enjolras had kissed him.

He sank down onto the sofa, heart beating so loudly he could hear it pounding in his ears.

This was all his fault.

He contemplated texting Combeferre and Courfeyrac to ask if he could crash on their sofa for the rest of the night; he wanted to get away from the apartment more than anything in the world. There were signs of Grantaire's cohabitation everywhere around him; his mug on the kitchen sideboard – the one that said 'not paint water' – and his records on the bookshelf.

Everywhere he looked, Grantaire, Grantaire, _Grantaire._

Enjolras couldn't escape him.

He fished his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants, opening up his contacts and staring at Courfeyrac's name on the screen, and the stupid picture of him in shutter shades that was his contact photo. His finger hovered over the call button for a minute, before he tossed his phone next to him on the sofa with a sigh of defeat and curling up in his blanket. He couldn't call them – it was late, and he knew for a fact that Combeferre had early classes.

He wiped furiously at his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. He wasn't sure when he'd started crying, but now that he had he couldn't stop.

He wanted it all to be a bad dream. He wanted Grantaire to come back ten minutes later with a clear head - to run to him and beg him to forgive him, to forget about the kiss and all the damage he'd done so they could go back to the way things were before.

Wishful thinking.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Grantaire walked for hours, roaming the empty backstreets and winding alleyways of the city. By the time he stopped he'd smoked through a whole pack of cigarettes and his feet felt like they were bleeding. The crisp February air had cleared his head, and now all the anger of the fight had faded into despair.

How could Enjolras be so cruel? If he didn't return Grantaire's feelings that was fine – Grantaire had never imagined even in his wildest dreams that he would - but to expect him not to see other people? It was vicious and controlling and unexpected; Enjolras had never struck him as that sort of person before.

He found a bench on Pont des Arts to smoke his last cigarette, sitting down and trying to decide what to do next. He didn't even know what had possessed him to walk in this direction – he hated this bridge, and the stupid, structurally destructive 'love locks' that tourists liked to attach to it.

Being surrounded by people's declarations of eternal love was hardly what he needed right now; it was as if some part of him was subconsciously set on self-destruction.

He took a deep drag off his cigarette, staring out at the river, it's surface glittering from the streetlamps. Briefly he wondered how many of the romances littering the bridge had ended in horrible, messy breakups; probably a lot of them.

The thought was strangely comforting, in a mean, sadistic sort of way.

Thinking about this he dug into his back pocket, retrieving his wedding ring. He thought about hurling it into the Seine, never to be seen again, and maybe if he'd not sobered up on the walk here he would have. It meant nothing, after all. He stood and walked to the railings, clenching his fist around the ring and miming throwing it over into the dark water.

If only he had the strength to actually do it. He doubted Enjolras had even kept his.

He sighed heavily, shoving it back into his pocket. If only. 

He didn't know what to do now – it was 2AM and he was wandering the streets of Paris, aimless, broken. He had to go somewhere, he told himself. 

He could go home, he knew. Despite what Enjolras said it was his apartment too, and Enjolras didn't have the authority to banish him from it. He paid his half of the rent – he had every right to go back there if he wanted.

He imagined briefly how that might play out, thinking better of it. No, he wasn't going home – it wasn't worth another screaming fight.

He could go to Joly and Bossuet's place, he knew – he was always welcome there. But they were probably both still drunk, and Musichetta had an early shift the next day. Even if Joly and Bossuet were pleased to see him he doubted Chetta would thank him for showing up in the middle of the night when she needed to sleep.

No, there was only one place to go when he was dealing with heartache, he decided, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette. There was only one person who'd even come close to understanding what he was going through.

 

* * *

 

 

“Seriously, R?”

Eponine glared at him with narrowed eyes, leaning in the doorway to her apartment in an over-sized Pink Floyd t-shirt and sweatpants.

“It's like two AM.” she complained.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbled, voice hoarse from chain smoking all night, “It was an emergency.”

“Oh?”

“Enjolras kicked me out.”

Eponine's expression darkened, “ _Oh,_ ” she said, immediately stepping to one side to let him in, “What happened?” she demanded as Grantaire shuffled past her, hands in his pockets.

“We fought.”

“No shit. About what?”

Grantaire didn't answer, shrugging out of his coat and looking around; Eponine's apartment was tiny, with peeling paint on the walls and patches of damp in the corners of the rooms. The lights were off in the living room, the only light coming from the muted television. Empty bottles littered the floor, and an ashtray full of dead cigarette butts sat on the coffee table. There was a bundle of old blankets and pillows on the sofa, forming a sort of nest.

“Have you been sleeping on the sofa...?” he asked.

“My brother came to stay for a while,” Eponine explained, sinking down onto it and gesturing for him to join her, “I gave him my bed...”

“That's sweet of you,” Grantaire smirked, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah well he doesn't exactly have a bed to sleep on at my parents' house,” Eponine said, lip curling in disgust, “I thought he could do with a few nights on a real mattress.”

Grantaire nodded, glancing around again; there was a significant lack of greasy black hair in the room.

“Where's your creepy roommate?”

“Montparnasse? God knows,” Eponine snorted, “He's only here like half the time.”

“Can't you sleep in his room, then?”

“His door is locked.”

Grantaire arched one eyebrow, “You practically pick locks for a living.” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I don't want to risk him coming back and finding me in there. He's a skinny little bastard and I could take him in a fistfight, but I'd rather not get shanked, thanks.”

Grantaire smiled wryly, “Just a suggestion," he said, slumping down next to her.

“You want a drink?” Eponine offered, retrieving a half-empty bottle of vodka from next to the sofa and holding it out to him. Grantaire wondered if she'd been sat up this late drinking by herself, but he didn't comment. It wasn't his place to judge, and he was hardly in the position to get all high and mighty about drinking alone. He took it from her, taking a large swig and handing it back to her. It tasted cheap and shit – exactly what he needed right now.

“So what happened?” She asked.

“I went out with Joly and Bossuet,” Grantaire told her, “And I met this girl at the bar...”

“Yeah?” Eponine grinned foxishly, “I don't think I want to know where this is going, R. I love you but I don't need the details, dude..."

“It wasn't like that,” Grantaire said, “Well, it nearly was. It could have been. She wanted it to be, but I bailed on her.”

“You bailed?” Eponine said, looking at him like he'd lost his mind, “What the fuck? Why? It's been forever since you get laid and then you turn an offer down?”

“It just felt...wrong,” Grantaire said, stealing the bottle again, “Like cheating.”

“Like cheating?!” Eponine exclaimed, snatching the vodka back from before he could even get his mouth around it, “Are you fucking kidding me?! You turned down a good fuck because you feel like you owe Blondie your undying fidelity? Are you _serious_ , man?”

“It's not like that!” Grantaire argued, knowing that no, actually, it totally was like that, “I just...didn't want to.”

“And that's fine,” Eponine said, “But if you did want to and you stopped because of Enjolras, you're a fucking idiot.”

Grantaire looked down, feeling sick. He hated it when Eponine was right.

“Fine. I guess I'm a fucking idiot.”

“Good to hear you admit it,” Eponine said, offering him the bottle as though it were his reward for being honest with himself, “Here.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire grumbled.

“So what happened when you got home?”

“Enjolras was mad.”

“About what?” Eponine scowled.

“About me meeting some girl. Like, I swear – he doesn't want me, but he doesn't want anyone else to want me either,” Grantaire sneered, “I never thought he'd be the controlling type, but I guess people surprise you, hey? It's like he thinks he owns me because of this stupid sham marriage.”

Eponine scoffed, “Asshole,” she decreed, leaning forward to roll a cigarette, “You can do better.”

“Can I?” Grantaire laughed, “Really?”

“Yes, really. You gotta learn to love yourself, man,” Eponine said firmly as he passed her back the vodka. She took a huge mouthful, shuddering a little at the taste, “Self-care is important.”

Grantaire wanted to impress upon her the irony of her saying this whilst chugging vodka, but he realised that probably wouldn't go down too well.

“If you say so,” he said instead, “I don't know what to do next, Ep...”

“Well that's easy,” Eponine said, licking the cigarette skin, “Get out of it.”

Grantaire tilted his head, “Get out of it?”

“The marriage. The apartment. Get out of it. Didn't he say when you went into this thing that he'd give you a divorce no questions asked if you wanted one?”

Grantaire's stomach churned – he wasn't sure if it was Eponine's words or the vodka that was proving hard to keep down, but he felt suddenly very sick.

“Yeah,” he said, “He did.”

“Then ask him,” Eponine said with a shrug, as though it should have been obvious, “Duh.”

“I don't know...” Grantaire said, “I don't know if I want to be a divorcee this young. It doesn't look good...”

“Who gives a shit how it looks? Don't tie yourself to that ungrateful dick if he's just going to rule your life.” Eponine scrunched up her nose, “Urgh - marriage.” she said, as though she'd just smelled something horrible.

“I suppose you're right...”

“Of course I'm right. Why are you even hesitating? Divorce his ass. Wait---” Eponine paused, shooting him an almost warning look, “You guys aren't, you know...?”

“What?”

“You know...” She made a crude gesture with her hands, “Is your marriage, uh, consummated?”

Grantaire felt his jaw drop; “No!” he said, "Of course not! Fucking hell, Ep!"

“I was only asking,” Eponine said defensively, “You just seem real stuck on this marriage thing, that's all! I didn't know if you guys had like a no-strings-attached kind of thing going on, you know? I thought maybe tax breaks weren't the only benefits you were getting out of this...”

“Absolutely not.” Grantaire said emphatically, “Trust me. It's not like that - not even close."

“Fine, fine. That's boring, then. If you're not fucking him why are you so caught up on staying in this arrangement?”

Grantaire wanted to say he didn't know, or make up some excuse, but he was beyond that now. He knew why - he knew, and it was taking the heart of him.

“Because I love him,” he said, “Even if he doesn't love me back.”

Eponine was silent for a while, not looking at him as she stuck her cigarette between her teeth and lit it, “I know,” she said eventually, breathing out a cloud of smoke, “Everyone knows, R.”

“Thanks...”

“It's true. And we all feel bad for you about this whole thing,” Eponine said, “I just think you need to look after yourself. Staying with the guy isn't doing you any favours. Get a divorce and move in with me.”

“With you?” Grantaire said, looking around, “Uh...no offense, but---”

“Yeah, I know, it's a dump,” Eponine said, waving one hand as though to waft the thought away along with her cigarette smoke, “We'll find a new place. Somewhere with less damp. Combined we could afford somewhere decent."

Grantaire sat back on the sofa, turning the idea over in his head. He'd definitely prefer living with Eponine to carrying on as he was with Enjolras. Hell, he'd lived with her before for a few weeks when her parents had first kicked her out of the house and she'd come to crash on his sofa. She was easy to get along with, and though she wasn't the most tidy person to live with, Grantaire could hardly criticise – his bedroom looked like a very artistic bomb had gone off in it.

“Maybe,” he said, “I need to think about it.”

“That's fine,” Eponine said, flicking the ash from the end of her cigarette, “Think on it all you want. But if you ask me, you should file for divorce tomorrow. Are you going home tonight?”

“No,” Grantaire said, “I guess I'll find somewhere to stay...”

“You can crash here. There's no room, but you can sleep on the floor,” Eponine offered, taking a pillow from the sofa and tossing it onto the floor, “It'll be like a sleepover,” she joked.

“Wow, thanks,” Grantaire said sarcastically, “Are we going to braid each other's hair now?”

“Oh shut up,” Eponine said, blowing smoke into his face, “Are you going to stay or not?”

“Yeah, sure,”

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I think you're right, you know,” Grantaire said quietly as they settled down to sleep, “I think it's best if Enjolras and I just...stop pretending.”

“Of course I'm right,” Eponine said sleepily, her voice muffled by the blankets, “What are you going to do?”

Grantaire closed his eyes,  “I'm going to ask him for a divorce.” he said, “Tomorrow. I'm going to go home and tell him everything.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

Enjolras stirred his coffee slowly, staring at the blank kitchen wall and wishing all the answers to his problem would magically appear there.

It was obscenely early; the sky was still milky outside, pale grey light streaming into the room from the skylight, and the city was asleep.

Enjolras had barely slept; after Grantaire had left he'd stayed on the sofa, not wanting to return to his own room for fear of the memories they'd inadvertently made there when they'd shared a bed. After a few fitful hours trying to fall asleep on the sofa he'd called it quits, showering and dressing for the day. There was no point trying to go back to bed – his stomach felt like it had been turned inside out.

He sighed, picking at the croissant on his plate and wondering what he was going to do now. There was a meeting later that night, and for the first time in his life Enjolras was dreading it. Would Grantaire be there? Enjolras wasn't even sure what he wanted. If he didn't attend the meeting then everyone in the group would know that something was wrong - and if he _was_ there, well, Enjolras wasn't sure he even wanted to imagine how that might play out. So far they'd managed to confine all the awkwardness between them to their own apartment, but after last night...well, there was no guaranteeing it wouldn't finally spill out into the Musain for all to see. He could see it now, the two of them standing across from each other shouting each other down in front of all their friends.

The thought made him feel sick.

He'd brought this all on himself, of course – his reaction to Grantaire talking about the girl he'd met at the bar had been...unreasonable, to say the least. Their marriage existed on paper only – what the hell gave him the right to behave like a jilted husband? Grantaire was at perfect liberty to sleep with whoever he wanted. Enjolras had never really had himself down as jealous type, but, well, you learn something new every day and all that.

As he sat there wondering what to do he heard the lock turn on the front door and froze, realising that there was only one other person with a key and what that meant. He stood, abandoning his coffee and turning expectantly towards the front door. 

Grantaire was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets and shadows under his eyes. He looked rough, his dark hair bedraggled and his shoes scuffed from walking, and Enjolras suddenly worried that he'd been wandering around Paris all night on account of him.

“You're back...” he said, when the awkward silence between them stretched out too long to bear. He had to say _something_.

“Yeah,” Grantaire muttered, looking down at his feet, “I sobered up. Guess miracles do happen, hey?" 

Enjolras said nothing. Inside he was crumbling, wishing he could take back every cruel word he'd said the night before. He wasn't angry any more. All the vicious things that had crossed his mind suddenly felt very meaningless, and now he was burning with shame for saying them. 

“Do you want coffee?” He offered, trying to be as disarming as possible, “I just made a fresh pot if you want some...”

“I'm good, thanks...” Grantaire said, his brows suddenly coming together in a scowl, “You're dressed,” he noticed, “How long have you been awake?”

“That's...complicated,” Enjolras admitted, “I never actually went to sleep, afterwards...”

“Oh. Me neither. I crashed on Eponine's floor – it was like sleeping on a bed of nails. Her place sucks."

Enjolras managed a weak smile, “She didn't have a sofa for you?”

“It's a long story - something about her brother.” Grantaire said, running one hand through his hair, “Look, Enjolras...can we talk?”

Enjolras' instinctive reaction was to say 'no' – whatever Grantaire had to say, Enjolras wasn't ready to hear it. He was too exhausted to go on holding back his tears, and he couldn't stand the thought of crying in front of Grantaire after everything. 

"Please?" Grantaire added weakly; he looked tired. Enjolras' insides coiled with guilt. 

“Alright,” he said reluctantly, sitting down on the sofa and folding his hands in his lap, “We can talk. I guess I have some things I need to say myself, anyway...”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, hesitating before he joined him on the sofa, sitting as far away from him as the space would allow.

“So do you want to go first, or should I...?” Enjolras mumbled, fiddling nervously with his hands. The few feet between them felt like a great, gaping canyon. 

“Maybe you first,” Grantaire suggested, “I need to build up to it, I think. You're the better speaker, anyway."

 _Not when it comes to emotions,_ Enjolras thought privately.

“Okay,” He said, bracing himself for the worst, “I have to tell you how sorry I am, first of all. I...I had no right to go off on you the way I did last night. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair."

"It was pretty shitty," Grantaire agreed.

Enjolras winced, looking down into his lap, "I just couldn't stand the thought of you with someone else,” he confessed, “I had no right to say the things I said. I was just jealous. It felt like it was a deliberate attack on me – first you reject me, then you come home boasting about some girl---”

“Wait,” Grantaire said suddenly, “Hang on a second---”

Enjolras glanced up, surprised to see confusion in Grantaire's eyes instead of anger. He looked as though Enjolras had just started speaking in tongues.

“Reject you?” he said, sounding baffled, “What are you talking about?”

“The kiss,” Enjolras prompted, wondering how Grantaire could have forgotten, “I understand if you don't feel the same way, I just---”

“No, wait---feel _what_ way?” Grantaire demanded urgently, “What are you talking about? I didn't...I never...” he shook his head, his mouth opening and closing as though he was having difficulty forming words.

“I never rejected you,” he spluttered at last, “ _You_ rejected _me._ ”

“No I didn't,” Enjolras corrected, confused, “Why would I reject you when _I_ was the one who kissed you?”

“But---you said----”

“That I didn't mean it---I know. I lied - I'm sorry. But when you pulled away and turned me down, I guess I just panicked, and---”

“I didn't turn you down,” Grantaire said breathlessly, his eyes wide. Enjolras stopped in his tracks, sure he must have misheard him.

"What?" He whispered. 

“I didn't turn you down.” Grantaire repeated, “I...I was just saying we shouldn't be making out on the roof. I guess it didn't come out right, but, I....” he blinked once, “You...didn't reject me?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras said; he could feel his heart pounding so furiously in his chest he thought it might break through his ribs like something from 'Alien'. Was he dreaming? Maybe he'd fallen asleep on the sofa after all. 

“I thought you...”

“I thought _you_...”

They locked eyes, a significant look passing between them, and suddenly it was as if a veil had been lifted back from over Enjolras' eyes, rendering everything in perfect clarity.

How had he missed it for so long? How had they both managed to avoid having this conversation? 

“I'd never turn you down, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, and the look in his eyes was practically dizzying, “I'm completely head over heels for you. I thought you knew that. _Everyone_ knows that.”

Enjolras let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

“Are you serious?” he said; it felt like a ridiculously inadequate response to what he'd just been told, but his head was reeling. 

“For once in my life,” Grantaire confirmed, “Enjolras - I love you. I thought you knew."

The words nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. He loved him. He _loved him._

Enjolras felt himself physically break; the tears he'd been fighting back finally came bursting out of him.

He flung himself forward, throwing his arms around Grantaire so violently he nearly knocked him backwards. Grantaire stiffened with surprise, caught off guard, and then his arms wrapped around him, holding him close. Enjolras closed his eyes, burying his face against Grantaire's shoulder; he could feel their hearts beating frantically together in their chests.

“I love you too,” he blurted out, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asked, voice cracking, “Really? _Me?_ ”

“Of course you,” Enjolras said tearfully, “Don't ever doubt it again.” he begged.

For once in his life Grantaire was speechless. 

“I...I didn't sleep with Adrienne,” he said eventually, still clinging to Enjolras as if he thought he might disappear in a puff of red smoke, “She really liked me, and she was nice, don't get me wrong, but...I couldn't go through with it. I felt like I was cheating on you.”

Enjolras gripped him tightly, “You could have done whatever you wanted – you didn't owe me anything.”

“I know.” Grantaire said, “But I couldn't. I didn't want to.”

Enjolras smiled against his shoulder, pulling away reluctantly; he could have stayed there in his arms forever.

“Wait - what was it you were going to say?” he asked, suddenly remembering.

“Oh. Uh, actually, I was going to ask for a divorce,” Grantaire said sheepishly, “I thought you didn't feel the same way and this arrangement was was starting to feel like torture...”

Enjolras let out a breathless laugh, almost hysterical with delight. He felt lightheaded.

“Well I guess we don't have to worry about that," he said. 

“Guess not.” Grantaire agreed, reaching behind him to fish something from his back pocket, holding it out for Enjolras to see; it was his wedding ring. 

“I kept it...” he said, looking almost coy, “Even after what happened on the roof...”

“I kept mine too,” Enjolras said, pulling it out of his pocket and brandishing it proudly; Grantaire's eyes lit up.

“Wow,” he said, lips curling into a smile, “I can't believe...”

“I know.”

“We're bad at communication,” Grantaire said, grinning, “We should probably try to get better at that...”

“We should,” Enjolras agreed, certain that his heart was going to burst from happiness.

“Can I kiss you?” Grantaire asked suddenly, eyes searching his for an answer, “Properly, this time. With us both being on the same page about it.”

Enjolras smiled, nodding – after everything he didn't think he had the breath left in his lungs to answer him. 

Grantaire reached forwards tentatively, cupping his cheek and leaning forward to bridge the gap between them.

He kissed him gently at first, with the strange, fragile uncertainty of a man who thought he might be dreaming. Enjolras closed his eyes, his stomach doing somersaults. He could hardly blame him - it certainly felt like a dream.

He brought one hand up to touch Grantaire's face, tracing his fingers along the curve of his jaw and hoping that the gesture would offer him encouragement; it seemed to work.

Grantaire stifled what sounded like a moan, wrapping one arm around Enjolras' waist to pull him closer, and Enjolras went along happily, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. It was the sort of kiss that Enjolras thought only existed in movies – the kind that sent a shiver down your spine, that tasted like heaven and made you see stars. It was perfect and messy and everything he'd ever imagined. 

He didn't think he'd ever be able to get enough of it.

They parted after what felt like forever, foreheads resting against each other, breathing heavily in tandem. 

"Kiss me again," Enjolras said against his lips; he felt Grantaire shudder against him, and then his mouth was on his neck, kissing a path down to his collarbone. His hands started to roam, stopping at his hips and gripping them hard enough to bruise. Enjolras let out a little gasp of pleasure, sliding back on the sofa and dragging Grantaire down on top of him. 

“Do you want to stop...?” Grantaire said huskily, breaking away when he noticed Enjolras squirming underneath him. 

“No,” Enjolras panted, pulling him back down, “Definitely not. Please..."

“Are you sure...?”

“Very sure,” Enjolras said, deliberately pushing his hips up against his; Grantaire's breath hitched in his throat. He was hard, Enjolras could feel it through his jeans and it made him feel strangely smug; there was something weirdly emboldening about being able to feel the effect he had on him. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Courfeyrac about sex; Courfeyrac was right - all the fear he'd had about his inexperience had melted like snow in the heat of passion. 

“Fuck,” Grantaire stammered, “Okay. I just didn't know if you wanted me to like, take you to dinner first or something...”

“We've been married like five months,” Enjolras reminded him playfully, "Not to be too forward, but maybe we should finally get around to consummating it?"

“Maybe,” Grantaire said, his eyes dark with desire, “But no harm in checking, right?”

Enjolras nodded, his whole body tingling with anticipation, “None at all,” he agreed.

“Good. Do you, uh, want to like, leave your shirt on or something...?” Grantaire asked; he seemed more nervous than Enjolras was.

“I don't want to do anything that might make you uncomfortable...”

“I just want to keep my binder on,” Enjolras said, “Don't worry – I've not had it on very long. If I get out of breath I'll tell you and we can stop,” he added, noticing a troubled look cross Grantaire's face.

“Okay. And if I do anything you don't like, anything at all---”

“I'll tell you.” Enjolras promised.

“Alright. I...want this to be good for you,” Grantaire muttered, “I mean...I know you've never...”

“I know.” Enjolras said, guiding his hand to the waistline of his jeans, “I want you,” he assured him, silencing him with a kiss.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Grantaire gave a heavy sigh, his heart feeling like it was going to leap out of his chest and fly away at any moment.

He couldn't believe what had just happened - hell, he might have even convinced himself it was a dream if it hadn't been for the sting along his back where Enjolras had raked his nails. Privately he hoped the pain never went away; it was a physical reminder that this was real and that Grantaire hadn't just imagined the whole thing.

Because, well, it certainly wouldn't have been the first time he'd imagined a variation of this exact scenario. 

Enjolras was still pinned beneath him, his hair an absolutely exquisite mess that Grantaire was very proud to claim as his own work. He looked obscene, his lips swollen and a dazed expression on his face. God, it was divine, and Grantaire wanted to imprint the image in his mind forever. 

They were still sprawled across the sofa with their legs tangled together, a blanket pulled up over them and all the pillows scattered around them on the floor – they'd pushed them all off in their haste, needing the room for, uh, other activities.

“This wasn't how I expected my day to go when I came home this morning,” Grantaire admitted, the first to break the comfortable silence.

"Oh?" Enjolras said.

"Yeah. I thought we were going to have another showdown and go our separate ways.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, smiling, “It wasn't how I expected it to go either,” he said, “But I'm _very_ glad it went the way it did..."

“Yeah?” Grantaire laughed, “Well, I guess I'll take that as a compliment...”

Enjolras smirked, “It is,” he said, “I don't think I can even feel my legs...”

“Whilst I'd _love_ to take credit for being a mind-blowingly good lover, I think that could just be because I'm lying on them,” Grantaire teased, kissing him softly on the lips; he didn't think he'd ever get tired of kissing him now that he could. He was hooked. 

“How humble of you,” Enjolras said, mouth lingering close to his, “It _was_ nice, though...”

“Nice?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, “Wow, thanks. Nice! Ha!"

“You know what I mean!” Enjolras grinned, colour rushing to his cheeks.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Grantaire said, “But really – it was okay? You weren't, like, uncomfortable or dysphoric or anything...?”

“No,” Enjolras promised, opening his eyes again to blink up at him, his blue eyes practically mesmerizing, “It was perfect.”

“Good.”

“You know, this sofa is technically Combeferre's,” Enjolras said suddenly, a guilty expression crossing his face, “He left it here for me, but he bought it. I feel kind of bad...”

“God, I hope he never asks for it back,” Grantaire said, “Maybe if we tell him we fucked on it he'll let us keep it...”

“Don't be awful!” Enjolras chastised, face red, “I'm never telling another living soul that I lost my virginity on a sofa.”

“I thought virginity was a social construct?” Grantaire challenged, raising one eyebrow.

“It _is!_ ” Enjolras groaned, “But the concept is still there and I don't want anyone to know it happened like _this._ ”

“Alright, fine,” Grantaire said, “When I go boasting about how I completely rocked your world I'll leave out the part about the sofa...” he joked. 

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, “You wouldn't dare...”

“Of course I wouldn't,” Grantaire said, amused, “Not really, anyway.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. I know I joke about it, but I don't _actually_ kiss and tell, you know,” Grantaire kissed him again, “You have my word.”

“Good.” Enjolras said, running one hand along his jaw, “You know, I think I have beard burn on my thighs..." he said suddenly, lips curling into a sly smile.

“My apologies,” Grantaire said, “I didn't hear you complaining at the time, though...”

“I definitely didn't,” Enjolras agreed, before he broke away suddenly, yawning, “Urgh. I'm exhausted. We should go to bed...”

“Oh man, I don't think I've got the stamina to go again just yet...” Grantaire said playfully; Enjolras snorted, clearly trying very hard not to smile.

“I mean so we can _sleep_ ,” he clarified, “We have the meeting later, remember?”

“Urgh, I'd forgotten about that,” Grantaire mumbled; of course even now, after all this, Enjolras' mind was still half at the Musain. Of course. Grantaire didn't adore him any less for it, but, well, he'd had other ideas about how to spend their evening.

“Can't we just stay here?” he asked, reaching forwards to play with a curl of Enjolras' hair, “I can think of a much better use of our time.”

Enjolras blushed brightly, “Is this what it's always going to be like, now?” he asked, amused.

“Oh I seriously hope so," Grantaire said earnestly, running one hand slowly down Enjolras' stomach, "Are you sure I can't tempt you to skip a meeting...?" 

Enjolras shook his head, smiling to himself, “You're terrible,” he decided, “I'm sorry, but I have to be there. You know that."

"Ah, fine," Grantaire said, withdrawing his hand as though he was retreating forces from a battlefield, "I'll just have to wait until we get home, then."

"When we get back I'm all yours," Enjolras swore, kissing his cheek, "I love you," he added, voice so soft that it sent a shiver down Grantaire's spine. 

“I never thought I'd hear you say that to me,” He said quietly, “Not even in my wildest dreams.”

It was true – he was still half expecting Enjolras to reveal a punchline. If he did, well, he'd taken the joke pretty far.

“Well I do,” Enjolras whispered, “And I'm sorry it took so long for me to tell you.”

“I mean, I'm guilty too. Like I said, we're not great at communicating,” Grantaire said, “We need to work on that if we're going to do this for real...” he hesitated for a moment, “We, uh, are doing this for real, right?”

“Of course.”

“I didn't want to assume...”

Enjolras wrapped his arms tightly around him, letting out a sleepy purr, “We did everything backwards, didn't we?” he said tiredly.

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded, “We did. Seems about right, for us..." 

“Courfeyrac is going to think this is hilarious,” Enjolras said, suddenly furrowing his brow, “He was the one pushing me to make a move."

“Of course he was,” Grantaire scoffed, “He's known forever how I feel about you.”

Enjolras sat bolt upright on the sofa, nearly headbutting Grantaire in the process, “What?!” he cried, horrified. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, “Everyone in the group knows.”

Enjolras's jaw dropped in a way that was impossible not to find funny.

“So Courfeyrac and Combeferre _knew?_ ” he said, outraged, “And they didn't say _anything_ to me? This whole time?”

“I guess they didn't think it was their place to meddle...”

“Well that'd be a first,” Enjolras said, pouting, "I can't believe it! Traitors." 

“What are you going to do?” Grantaire asked.

“I'm going to murder them,” Enjolras vowed, managing to look threatening even with sex hair and flushed cheeks.

Grantaire chuckled, watching him fondly, “Maybe send him a text?” he suggested, “Give him a chance to flee the country? It's only fair.”

“Fine.” Enjolras scoffed, “Are we going to bed, then?”

“Sure,” Grantaire nodded, “Do you need me to carry you there or do your legs work again?”

“I think they can hold my weight,” Enjolras said, “But if you _want_ to carry me to bed...”

“Well if I carry you, it's going to feel pretty romantic...” Grantaire reasoned, “And you know, I don't know where that might go. You might not be able to resist me,” he joked.

Enjolras grinned, “Maybe we can stay up a _little_ bit longer,” he said, “I'm running on adrenaline anyway.”

“We definitely need to move to the bedroom, then,” Grantaire said firmly, “It's cold out here. I'm freezing my balls off.”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose, "Charming."

 

* * *

 

 

They were late to the meeting, both of them red-faced and ruffled when they finally made it to the Musain. It wasn't their fault there had been such a long delay on the metro, sure - but then again it probably _was_ their fault that they'd spent the twenty minute wait making out like a couple of horny teenagers, getting so handsy and involved that they'd actually missed their train when it did finally arrive at the platform. 

But, whatever - they were there now, and that was all that mattered.

There was no way to disguise the way they looked, though, and almost as soon as they arrived Grantaire saw eyebrows start to raise.

“Did you and Enjolras get into a fight?” Joly asked as he sat down between him and Bossuet.

“When _aren't_ we fighting?” Grantaire said, helping himself to a bottle of beer on the table. 

“That's not what he means,” Bossuet said, looking him up and down, “He means like, a _physical_ fight. You look like you've been throwing hands...”

Grantaire snorted, “As if,” he said, waving it off, “Come on, give me a little credit - if me and Enjolras got into a fist fight I'd kick his ass.”

“Sure,” Joly said, glancing at Enjolras and then back at Grantaire as though trying to make sense of something, “You both seem...weirdly happy...”

“Must be your imagination,” Grantaire said, fighting back a smile, “You should be paying attention to the meeting,” he added, taking a sip of the beer, “Important social topics and all that.”

 

* * *

 

 

The meeting continued as normal, everyone soon forgetting his and Enjolras' late entrance and disheveled appearances.

There was some discussion about making the university more accessible, and Feuilly got up to take his weekly donations for the local soup kitchen, and the whole night passed reasonably normally – except for Grantaire, anyway, who couldn't take his eyes off Enjolras.

That in itself was hardly new, sure, but this time it was different – this time he was looking at him knowing they would be going home together, as lovers. It made him feel almost giddy; as they'd alighted the metro earlier Enjolras had caught him by the arm and whispered promises for later into his ear, and now Grantaire had never wanted a meeting to end more in all his life.

It dragged on for two hours before everyone finally decided to call it a night, some of them muttering among themselves about going to get drinks afterwards. For once Grantaire had no interest in joining them; he had far better things to be doing with his evening than getting drunk in some dingy bar surrounded by tourists. 

“Oh, before everyone heads off I have three important announcements,” Enjolras called as some of their friends got up to leave, “Firstly, we need to move next week's meeting forward to Thursday, management are closing for maintenance on the Friday,” he told everyone.

“And secondly, Grantaire and I are in a relationship.”

He tacked it on so casually that for a second no one seemed to catch it; there was a beat of silence, and then a chorus of gasps and shouts of surprise exploded from their friends.

“You're _dating?!_ ” Jehan cried, clutching their chest as if they were about to have a heart attack.

“Finally!” Bahorel yelled.

“About damn time!” Joly seconded.

“I _knew_ you were hiding something from us, R!” Bossuet said, throwing one arm around Grantaire's shoulders. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre, stood either side of Enjolras, spun to face him at the same time.

“What?!” Courfeyrac gasped, “You---and he---?!”

Enjolras nodded, beaming, “Yeah...”

“You're together?” Combeferre asked, looking visibly surprised.

“We talked.” Enjolras said with a coy smile, shrugging it off as if it were nothing. 

“Looks like you did more than that if you ask me,” Courfeyrac laughed, ruffling his hair playfully. Enjolras jerked away from his touch, indignant. 

“No!” he said, but his cheeks were so red Grantaire could see them glowing from across the room.

“Oh _really?_ ” Courfeyrac said, grinning like the cheshire cat. He reached forward, squinting slightly, “Hey, did you know you've got a hickey right here---”

Enjolras batted his hand away, hurriedly trying to cover his neck.

There was nothing there - Grantaire knew exactly where he had and hadn't left his mark – but Courfeyrac was a scheming devil, and Enjolras' reaction alone may as well have been a signed confession.

“I knew it! Oh my god!” Courfeyrac shrieked with glee, throwing his arms around Enjolras in delight, “ _Finally!_ ”

Bahorel guffawed, “R, you stud!”

Grantaire gave a sheepish smile, “Well what can I say,” he shrugged, “I suppose I do have a certain irresistible charm...”

“Don't encourage this!” Enjolras hissed. 

Grantaire laughed, holding up his hands in surrender, “Sorry, mon chéri,"

“Oh my goodness you are so cute together already!” Cosette said, clasping her hands together, “It's adorable.”

“Congratulations!” Marius nodded.

“How did it even happen?” Feuilly asked, frowning.

“I bet it was romantic,” Jehan said, leaning forwards across the table, “Tell us, R!”

“Uhhh...” Grantaire laughed nervously, shooting Enjolras an apologetic look, “Not exactly. Maybe it's a story for another time...”

“Or a story for when we get you drunk!” Joly decided cheerfully.

“Yeah - we all want to know!” Bossuet begged.

“Yeah,” Eponine said, cutting in sharply; she was glaring at him from the across the table, “I'm pretty curious myself, seeing as last night you were at my apartment feeling sorry for yourself.”

“There was...a misunderstanding,” Enjolras supplied.

“Really?” Eponine pursed her lips, looking doubtful.

“Really,” Grantaire said, “We just had to talk things out.”

“So I don't have to kill him, then?” she asked.

“No. Please don't.”

“See, Enjolras! I _told_ you you just needed to communicate!” Courfeyrac chipped in.

“You're not off the hook,” Enjolras added, turning to face him, “Apparently you _knew_ how he felt about me all along!”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac stepped back, “Don't be angry, Enj. It just, uh, didn't feel right to interfere...”

“Why do you think we were so concerned about your fake marriage plan?” Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “We knew someone was going to end up getting hurt...”

“Or laid, as it transpired,” Courfeyrac snickered.

Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“I can't believe you guys got married before you started dating,” Jehan said, “That's fate!”

“Yes, well...that actually brings me to my third announcement,” Enjolras said, smiling brightly, “Grantaire and I are getting a divorce!”

“What?!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, with such a kicked-puppy expression on his face that Grantaire barely resisted the urge to laugh.

“I... _what?!_ ” he said, “But you guys---I don't understand? You just got together!”

“Yeah, aren't you happy together now?” Bahorel frowned, “Why are you getting a divorce if you're all loved up?”

“Well...our marriage wasn't exactly genuine,” Enjolras reminded them, fiddling with the ring on his finger, “It feels wrong to continue; we did everything backwards. We've talked about it together and given it lots of thought, and, well...”

“We decided if we're ever going to get married, it'll be for real,” Grantaire finished for him, slipping off his ring.

“Heads up, Courf!” he called, tossing it at Courfeyrac, who scrambled to catch it, bewildered.

“What do you want me to do with it?” he asked.

“Hold onto them for us,” Enjolras asked, removing his own and pressing it into his friend's hand, “Until we need them again. If we do. Maybe.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac said, “Somehow this is like, the most romantic fucking thing ever.”

“It's not impossible for me to be romantic, you know,” Enjolras said, sniffing disdainfully.

“Of course not,” Bahorel said, “But it's new!”

“Are we all going to hit a bar and celebrate, or what?” Joly asked, banging his cane against the floor to get everyone's attention, “First round of drinks are on the happy couple!”

“Sorry, I think we have other plans,” Enjolras excused, "Maybe tomorrow night."

Grantaire felt his heart swell in his chest, sure that he would never be able to get used to seeing Enjolras smile at him the way he was now as he made his way over to him. It was almost too good to be true.

“Come on,” Enjolras said, offering his hand, eyes sparkling, “We should be getting home...”

No, Grantaire thought; he would definitely never get used to this.

 


	21. Epilogue: 2 Years Later

“So why exactly are we out here?” Grantaire asked, leaning back to admire the view.

It never got boring, the view from the roof – it had easily become Enjolras' favourite thing about their apartment. He'd lived there for years with Combeferre but only when Grantaire had moved in had he discovered the benefits of taking a little risk. It was fitting, really – it seemed like an appropriate metaphor for their relationship.

“I just thought it would be nice,” Enjolras said, pulling the picnic basket he'd brought with him onto his lap, “It's a nice night, and we haven't done this in a while,” he shrugged, “Do we really need a reason for date night?”

“I guess not,” Grantaire said, raising one eyebrow as he noticed the basket, “A picnic? Really, Enj?”

“Why not? It's romantic,” Enjolras said, puffing up, “I can be romantic.”

“Well clearly _someone's_ feeling amorous tonight,” Grantaire joked, slinging one arm around his waist to draw him closer; it seemed like an affectionate gesture until Enjolras caught him trying to sneak his hand into the basket.

“Wait a minute!” he scolded, swatting his hand away, “I spent actual time preparing this, at least let me set everything up nicely...”

“Alright, geez! Is this because it's your turn to cook dinner tonight?”

“Obviously,” Enjolras said drolly.

“I bet it is. You just don't want to admit your onion soup ain't shit compared to mine,” Grantaire teased.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “Here,” he said, handing him a knife.

“Is this a threat?” Grantaire laughed, taking it from him.

“If you're not careful it will be. Anyway, here - we've got a bunch of different cheeses, some nice bread, grapes...”

“Damn. If you're trying to seduce me, it's definitely working...” Grantaire said, helping himself.

Enjolras smiled, glancing back out at the city, and all the lights twinkling in the darkness. It couldn't have been a more perfect night for this, he thought.

“How was work today, anyway?” Grantaire said casually, plucking off grapes one at a time.

“Good,” Enjolras said, “Tiring, as always, but good...”

“Seems fitting really that you got a job at the Musain,” Grantaire remarked, “You just need to move in there and then you can spend your whole life there,” he joked.

“Oh shut up,” Enjolras snorted, “It's only for a little while.”

“Of course, I know, I keep forgetting – my smart, handsome political science graduate,” Grantaire purred, “You'll be using your debate skills to bring home a pay cheque in no time.”

“I hope so.” Enjolras said, "Just graduating proved my parents wrong - I'd love to see their reactions if I actually landed a career with my degree."

“You will. It'll be something ridiculously charitable and righteous and you'll help better mankind and all that."

"Don't make fun of me." Enjolras muttered.

"I'm not," Grantaire said, voice softening, "I mean it. I believe in you.”

Warmth bloomed deep in Enjolras' chest, making him more sure than ever of what he'd planned for that evening.

“Okay, you were right before,” he confessed, “I _did_ have a bit of an ulterior motive in bringing you up here...”

“Oh? Nothing bad, I hope?” Grantaire asked, “Not planning to throw me off the roof?”

“No – not this time, anyway,” Enjolras said playfully, “Just...something I thought we needed to talk about...”

The colour drained right out of Grantaire's face, “Oh fuck, you're not pregnant, are you?”

“God, no!” Enjolras cried, amused, “No. Not that I know of, anyway...”

“Thank god. I mean, I'm not against the idea,” Grantaire said, catching himself quickly, “Don't get me wrong - kids are great and we'd make some awesome babies, but I'm definitely not ready for that yet.”

Enjolras snickered, “Well don't worry, that's not what I got you up here for,” he promised, slipping his hand into his back pocket. Suddenly all the courage he'd spent the afternoon building up started to fail him.

“Grantaire,” he started, “I...the reason I wanted us to come up here tonight is because it's special. In a way. This is where we first kissed...properly, anyway. I don't think that kiss in the registrar's office really counted.”

“It definitely didn't,” Grantaire agreed, frowning, “What are you getting at...?”

“Well,” Enjolras sucked in a deep breath, “It's been two years since we actually communicated, and, you know, we discussed some things back then that I feel are especially relevant now...”

“Such as...?”

Enjolras braced himself, pulling the ring out of his pocket like he was drawing a gun in a duel, “Will you marry me?” he blurted out, so quickly he was worried his words might run together.

“For real this time,” he added, when he saw the stunned look on Grantaire's face.

“I...what? Are you serious?” Grantaire said, “Really?”

“Really.”

“What the----you have _got_ to be kidding me---”

Enjolras felt his heart sink; that wasn't exactly the response you dreamed of when you asked someone to marry you.

“I'm sorry,” he began, “Was it too soon? I just thought---”

“No, Enjolras, wait,” Grantaire cut in, grabbing his wrist desperately, “Let's not fuck up again due to a misunderstanding,” he said, and then, to Enjolras' complete surprise, produced an identical ring from the pocket of his jacket.

“I was kind of hoping I'd get to go first this time,” he said.

Enjolras felt his heart skip a beat.

“Really?” he said, stunned.

“Really.” Grantaire said, a grin spreading across his face.

There was no mistaking the ring, either – it was the one he'd worn when they'd been married the first time. Which could only mean one thing...

“Courfeyrac---”

“Knew we both wanted to propose,” Grantaire finished, having already added it up himself, “And didn't say shit to either of us.”

“What an asshole,” Enjolras said, but he couldn't be angry, not really – not when he was so blissfully happy.

“He's going to be really smug about this,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras nodded, letting out a breathless laugh, “I'm guessing it's a 'yes', then?”

“It's definitely a yes,” Grantaire said, rushing forward to kiss him; Enjolras melted into it, heart fluttering in his chest. Even now, two years on, Grantaire could still leave him as breathless as the first time they'd kissed.

Grantaire broke away reluctantly, cupping his cheek, “And from you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras laughed against his lips, “ _Absolutely_ yes.”

 


End file.
